Beauty Shall Change The World

I used to be friends with a famous Canadian artist just before her name became, well not quite a household word (she will never hold a candle to Emily Carr)  We disappeared out of each other's lives many years ago, for a number of reasons not worth mentioning on this blog.  Some thirteen years following the end of our friendship, I also began to paint.  Unlike my ex-friend I never became famous though I have sold almost one hundred paintings in my career as an artist.  My work has never appeared in a good gallery and I am not sure if this is ever going to happen or if it  will ever need to happen.  On this post I have copied and pasted images of her art juxtaposed next to mine.  I have always wanted to see how well my art would stand compared to some of the works of an already renowned and accomplished artist.  I am not going to name her here out of respect for her privacy, but some of you who are familiar with her work will likely recognize at least some of her images.  In all fairness all the bird paintings are mine.  The others are by the other, famous artist and also by Emily Carr.

During a retrospective show of her paintings I saw a video interview in which she mentioned that she does not like painting anything that is "pretty."  She said that pretty is weak (pretty weak?) and she is interested in painting art and images that are strong.  I have often thought of my painting as being primarily aesthetic, or if you like, pretty.  But I also try to deliver through my images and motifs a sense of strength.  Perhaps I could call it beauty?  But looking at my ex-friend's painting, I see much that is beautiful, strong and even pretty and I believe this to be true of much of my own painting.  It would go without saying that our styles are decidedly different.  I will also concede that she is by far a more experienced, skilled and versatile artist than me.  However, I will leave it to the judgement of you, my dear readers, as to whether my paintings could compare favourably with those of a much more accomplished artist than I could ever hope to be.  I am also inserting some images of work by the great Emily Carr, as a kind of control.  For those of you not familiar with Emily Carr's work, I have included only a few of her paintings of trees and forests.

This also returns me to the theme of beauty.  What exactly is beauty?  Today has been what I would call a beautiful day, an extraordinarily beautiful day.  That the sun shone brightly all day certainly helps me ascribe this quality.  That the daylight is already getting gradually stronger and brighter as we begin to move towards spring certainly helps.  The cool fresh air and the early spring crocuses and snowdrops beginning to appear and...what is it?  Everything today had a crystalline clarity, a jewel-like radiance.  The colours of everything were not only bright, but something magical, transfigured, as though an unseen presence, a very kind, lovely and joyous presence, was impregnating the air, and by extension, us.  This subtle radiance, not always so subtle, influenced and informed everything today, or so it seemed.

    

 There is also this sense of the subtle, almost invisible interplay between people and between us and our environment.  I found that even the smallest act of kindness or courtesy had a strong swell to it that seemed to buoy up and touch everything.  The words originally ascribed to Dostoevsky "Beauty Shall Save The World" have been occupying my mind today.  How shall beauty save the world, and what kind or what quality of beauty?

 

 

I think this beauty isn't so much a visible or sensual aesthetic so much as an invisible reality that is made manifest in the way we interact with one another and with our environment, in the way we treat one another, in our willingness and ability to slow down, stop, and give way to one another, and to stop and really perceive, see and hear what is already there.

 

 

I am aware today of how early one morning, some seventeen years ago, I was taking a long walk that led me over the Cambie Street Bridge here in Vancouver where I live.

 

The sun was just rising and it's golden-coppery light lit and burnished everything, as though all the plain drab and ugly high rise buildings had been suddenly set on fire and lit with a surreal radiance so that something so ordinary and ugly was suddenly transformed into an incandescent and flaming reality.  Then I realized , that really I was seeing these things the way they really were, the way they were meant, by some divine and eternal mind, to appear in their pure and eternal aspect.  It only took this new golden-blood light of the rising sun to bring out what was always there, but seldom in our range of vision.

  This winter I am taking special care to notice the beauty I don't always so readily see, especially with the way the light plays on everything that surrounds me.  The bare trees made beautiful in the sun and the rain and the shimmering green moss and the delicate ferns growing from their trunks and branches.  The presence of colour everywhere, people's faces, the sense however elusive of the soul, the spirit of the stranger standing next to me.  There is so much beauty that lies beneath the ugliness.

  We have only to look for it.  To believe in its existence and to believe and desire that when this beauty touches us, whether through a sound in the air, or a flash of colour or a sudden insight of a hidden truth, that it, this beauty alone can transform us and the world of which we are each an irreplaceable member.

 

Gym Gawd

I don't go to the gym.  It isn't that I hate exercise.  I do a minimum of five miles walking every day, or, ten thousand steps, as well as flexing and stretching exercises at home especially when I'm in front of the computer.  I am actually supporting a client who speaks Spanish, interpreting and translating for her as she works with the machines and tries to understand the facilitators' comments and instructions, etc.  Being in this kind of environment with her simply confirms for me why I don't go there and likely never well, unless that is, I am being paid to, or supporting someone else in getting set up, or hopefully, both.

My first problem with gyms is they are indoors.  For me exercise is an outdoor affair, out in nature with lots of fresh air.  Gym air is stale, recycled and often a bit smelly.

My second problem: the aesthetic, or should I say what aesthetic? Gyms are visually ugly, lacking colour, harmony, decent visual stimulation.  They look rather like torture chambers.

My third problem: other patrons.  The crowding can make it difficult to feel comfortable, and being this up close with complete strangers who do not communicate with each other for me is not desirable.  And then there are the show-offs.  For example this young Asian patron, male, with big muscles and tight white tank top.  While doing his bench presses and whatever he seemed to really want everyone else to know how he was doing.  All his grunting, groaning, gasping and near screaming made me think of a virgin bridegroom passing his wedding night in a poorly insulated room of a very cheap hotel.  My Spanish-speaking client and I shared a couple of laughs about this one and we nick-named him El Senorito Mireme, or Young Mister Look At Me.

My fourth problem: communal showers.  'Nuff said!

I did wonder, briefly, as I'm sure some of my readers must be if my annoyance with El Senorito Mireme might have more to do with jealousy or envy.  Well, let's look at this.  Jealousy, I know, has to do with envy but isn't always the same thing.  Jealousy suggests possession or possessiveness.  For example "For I am a Jealous God."  What would God possibly be jealous of if jealousy and envy are the same thing?  I believe the original Hebrew would have read with a word that was more like "Possessive."  I don't mean possessive like a possessive spouse or lover, but one who holds and cherishes and protects what is very precious to her.  Envy, on the other hand, is entirely a different sack of potatoes.  To feel envy is to covet, it's to be resentful and mean-spirited towards someone who has or is, or is able to do something that we can't be or are not able to do.  So then, back to El Senorito.  Am I envious of him?  Do I envy him for his youth?  I after all will likely die some thirty years sooner than he because that would be our approximate different in age.  I will never again have or enjoy the vigour, resiliency and energy that I had in my twenties.  However, I don't miss this.  I actually enjoy getting more rest as I need it.  It is relaxed and contemplative and for this reason I very rarely feel rushed or anxious.  Do I envy him his muscles?  I've never had big muscles, never really care for them.  Still don't.

While I was musing about this a man my age or older, I think perhaps in his sixties, was doing incredible gymnastic flips, way up high, somersaulting in mid air with the grace and ease of an eighteen year old boy.  Something I am not able to do.  Would I like to? Maybe.  But I feel absolutely nothing like envy towards this man for his incredible gymnastic ability and skill.  What I feel towards him is admiration.  And awe.

I might even try this sometime myself, but it is going to have to be outside, in a forest and on a tree.
Or, maybe not.

You Can Be Immature Forever

Today I was reminded again that I am not getting younger.  A young co-worker and I were riding the bus together on our way to a staff meeting when a man even older than I asked if we're father and daughter.  We were both a bit weirded out by this and I especially as I thought, well, I will be fifty-eight in a month and my co-worker is I think in her early thirties?  Of course.  The other day, responding to my inquirer about a Spanish language partner out of the many Latino tenants in my building the manager in an email suggested that the young women might not be comfortable with me, and he didn't say, because you're an old man, but of course it was said anyway.  I responded with, here is ageism raising it's ugly head again.  Of course he is probably right.  A lot of young women are creeped out about old men because, well, we are old...and men.
     I would be glad to work at Spanish or anything else with a gal young enough to be my daughter.  And I sometimes do.  Or with a gal old enough to be my ex-wife, or old enough to be my ex-mother-in-law (even though I've never been married!)  Or it could be with a guy.  Of any age.  I don't care.  For a close friend, un amigo de confianza as we say in Spanish or a trusted friend I would prefer someone older, mature, not because I have anything against the young but because I trust the wisdom of age.
     Don't get me wrong.  Youth is beautiful.  There is a fresh, new and unspoiled quality about the young.  A promise of a new start.  There is strength, beauty and health that has not yet been ruined by poor diet, no exercise and too many years of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs.  And there is that unjaded, uncynical openness to life and possibility, often made ridiculous by naivety and idealism but really isn't this part of the charm of youth?  But young people can also be incredibly headstrong and arrogant because they have not been tested, because their cute flawless little asses have not yet been properly kicked.  They can be judgemental and tunnel-visioned and incapable of empathy or of appreciating a different point of view.  They can be downright dogmatic.  I think this is often why Anglican churches are often full (well, less than full in this age of religious decline) of people older than fifty while evangelical warehouse churches are brimming with young folk.  Anglicanism encourages thinking, inquiry, an opening of the mind and a grounded capacity to hear and listen without making judgements.  None of these qualities will be found among the evangelical community churches.
     You're young only once but you can be immature forever.  Youth looks dreadful on anyone older than thirty no matter what this era of legislated immaturity might say about thirty being the new twenty.  Now that I'm older and my thinking is clearer and more objective I very seldom see anything in people younger than thirty that I find attractive.  They all look to me like large children, somehow unripe, incomplete.   This is not envy speaking, by the way.  It is relief.  I'm finally past all the storms and greenness of youth though my heart still feels young like a laughing and dancing child.

I Hope And Pray That We Do

Almost two years ago I suspended a friendship of nearly five years with a person a generation younger than me.  Intergenerational friendships can be greatly rewarding for both parties.  They can also be stressful and irritating, marred on both sides with miscommunications.  Generally the pressure is going to be on the older party to be more understanding, compassionate and forgiving.  As we age, if we are doing it well, we tend to become more forgiving and more tolerant of others.  I am not sure how successful I am being in this regard.  I know that I try hard but I guess that in many ways I am a slow learner.  My young friend, who lives in a different country, didn't seem to think that I could ever get it right. 
     As well as being of different generations we are also of very different socio-economic classes.  My friend (I am not yet going to call her an ex-friend as I am still holding out in hope for reconciliation) claims to be a child of the One Percent.  His father is a doctor, apparently quite a wealthy doctor.  You have likely noticed by now that I have referred to my friend in both genders.  This is because I greatly want to protect his privacy.  It seems that for her the last straw was when I published an edited portion of his email to me on my travel blog.  I did this just in case other readers were making similar negative and unkind assumptions about me that she was and I wanted to clarify things once and for all.  I also emailed him saying that I was going to suspend our friendship (but not end it) until he changed his attitude.
      She was complaining bitterly that there must be something seriously wrong with me, since at least three times in a lengthy trip to Mexico City I had mentioned children negatively.  Now I do not hate children.  I am not huge on them either.  I would say that on a scale of ten, concerning kids I would be about a five.  They're okay, they don't especially thrill me, and I hate it when they make lots of noise.  Especially on a plane.  In economy class.  And the darling little screamer is seated right beside me.  As occurred during this flight to Mexico City.  My Italian friend (but she might be Norwegian) said this is proof that I hate children.  He apparently didn't read the part where I said that I really felt sorry for the poor kid who was plainly miserable and frightened as well as for his parents and I actually, instead of complaining about the screaming did everything I could to reach out and support and comfort the child and his parents and they seemed to appreciate this.  I wrote also briefly about a small child running around unattended in a restaurant: not a sign of responsible parenting methinks; as well as another toddler screaming at the top of her little but very powerful lungs in Parque Chapultepec until her father hollered back at her and what an effective way this was of quieter.  I might mention here that while I am anti-hitting and anti-spanking I still believe in being strict and firm with badly behaved children.
      So, my dear Mohinder, my friend who might live in Mumbai, I don't hate children and I don't have a particular problem with noise as you have charged.  I simply like children to be a little bit well behaved with responsible parents.  You don't have to agree, but please refrain from judging me based upon your untested biases. 
     Then there was this matter of me speaking up on behalf of elderly subway passengers who were forced to remain standing while young and fit looking idiots occupied the clearly indicated courtesy seats.  Being fluent in Spanish I addressed those selfish young people.  They all ignored me.  I expressed empathy to the elderly passengers who expressed back appreciation.  On their way off the Metro I confronted two of these young people with the words "Espero que ustedes se sientan mucha verguenza", or I hope you're both ashamed of yourselves.  I know the culture rather well in Mexico and am well aware that the elderly and disabled are traditionally honoured and cared for and that though a visitor I am well in my rights to address this kind of rudeness.  My friend who lives in Helsinki doesn't seem to agree with this and responded in very offended tones declaring that often when he is on the bus he simply ignores elderly passengers who are standing since he might be feeling tired.
     I felt flabbergasted and shocked by this proud declaration of obvious narcissistic selfishness and wondered why would I want anyone who is so lacking a moral or ethical compass for a friend?
     My young friend who lives in Tokyo (but she could be from Sydney, Australia) also took exception when I wrote something unkind upon the Mexican One Percent, following a walk through their wealthiest neighbourhood, Las Lomas de Chapultepec.  According to Toshiko I hate rich people and since her parents are wealthy I must hate them and by extension I must hate her.  For this reason I was asked to take him, my friend from Buenos Aires off my email list. 
     This was upsetting to me, for a few reasons.  First of all, I had already been receiving from him for over the past year emails that I found to be increasingly negative, judgemental and even vindictive, where, if I mentioned even one single thing that he disagreed with or found disturbing he would completely ignore almost the entire content of my email, no matter how worthy or interesting, and simply focus on the one single detail that he found offensive, call me on it, and suggest that I really ought to strive to be a better person or work on my self-improvement.  Getting a series of emails like this became after a while upsetting.  I started feeling hated by him and undermined.  This wasn't just good natured disagreement, it was dislike I was getting from him.  On top of this, after giving her emotional support over the death of a beloved family member, when I reported the death of my own father this went completely ignored.
     I have concluded that this individual is a selfish narcissist with no moral compass.
     I hope that one day my friend proves otherwise.  I do not like ending friendships and I will still allow time to heal and renew things between us.  After sending him a few links to this blog he responded expressing resentment over the issues I have just written about here.  After two years!  I simply responded that I owe him nothing and he owes me nothing and could we please move on from there?  I hope and pray that we do.

If We Cannot Forgive...

Forgiveness is hard.  I don't know if we ever get it right.  I know that I struggle, and I think I recall last summer announcing that I was going to work on forgiveness and reconciliation.  I must have bit off more than I could chew.  I remember a line from George Macdonald's famous novel "Lilith", where some one says something like, "Why bless you for this.  It gives me something to forgive."  I have always remembered and held close this truth.  To forgive is a blessing.  The act of forgiveness itself is a blessing.  It doesn't happen overnight.  It sometimes takes years.  As long as the hurt is there and dominates like an abscessed wisdom tooth we are not going to feel much like forgiving someone who has hurt us.  Especially if we have been traumatized.  I am right now particularly disenchanted with one person for recently mistreating me and there are two others, a couple in my circle who also appear to be equally angry at me.  However this couple seems quite codependent so it is difficult to tell if it is just one spouse or both (two women) but I suspect that it is just one and the other is staying quiet to keep the peace at home so to speak.  I'm not always as kind as I ought to be.  I do try to be as kind as I can be and I usually try and I try hard.  I think most of us do but we often trip over ourselves, lose our footing and then we need help getting back up on our feet again.
     I used to believe strongly that if someone has offended me then they have to explain and apologize.  Lately I am becoming conscious of my own capacity for offending others.  I am usually shocked, especially because the result is so opposite to what I intended.  I believe everyone goes through this.  Something was said carelessly or insensitively, someone who does not share your kind of humour has been deeply hurt by something you've said or done...We can apologize and explain till we're blue in the face and it is still not a guarantee of forgiveness.
     Or we can offer one another a general amnesty.  For really serious stuff such as theft, murder, rape, major acts of racism and other injustice explanations and apologies are essentials.  I am thinking of these minor things that build up between people, irritations that build into palpable rage. 
     I am not saying we can all be friends or that we are all safe together.  Far from it.  I can forgive someone for abusing me, as happened recently, but as long as I don't feel safe in this person's presence I am avoiding her.  I also respect the desire of the other friend to avoid me, likely for the same reasons.  We really can't help what we are.  We can do whatever damage control we are able but sooner or later we have to hang up our whips (the ones we lash ourselves with) and accept that at best we are all a work in progress.
     Time and patience can make all the difference.  Perhaps even an act of kindness to the person who offended us?  I have tried this and it often works.  One thing we cannot expect really is that someone else is going to change in a way that suits our comfort or values and if you happen to be married or living with someone like that then maybe now is the time to consider if you can afford to pay the rent alone.
     We each carry a shadow.  As people become close to each other their shadows are going to touch and eventually envelop.  This merging of shadows can easily become either a shelter from the blistering heat of the sun or a chill cold and alarming darkness, in which case it is time to disengage and return to the warm and healing daylight.  Then and only then can we forgive and if we cannot forgive what was done to us can we at least forgive each other?  and ourselves?

Preparing For Geezerhood

Getting old is not for sissies, I have heard.  I'm not there yet, but it's coming and it's coming fast.  I will be fifty-eight in a month and five days, seven years away from my pension.  I so far enjoy reasonably good health.  Last spring there was a bit of a scare with my slightly elevated blood pressure and blood cholesterol but I have modified my diet and already lost at least twenty pounds.  These are long term changes.  I have to be prepared to eat this way for the rest of my life or it isn't going to work, I'll regain all my lost pounds plus an extra fifty, my blood pressure and cholesterol will skyrocket and I'll be dead before seventy by stroke, heart attack or both with three different cancers thrown in.  That's worst-case anyway but I do plan on taking better care of myself for the rest of my days and I still expect to see one hundred and beyond, all going well.
     Of course, living to be a centenarian will make me a statistical oddity.  This is more likely to happen to women than men.  It is more likely to happen to wealthy men, and it is more likely to happen to wealthy men who are married.  I am poor, single and male.  Very few in my demographic make it to seventy-five.  We have the highest incident of suicide, even more than teenage boys, as well as alcoholism.  We are least likely to eat well or healthily, most likely to be lonely and isolated, most vulnerable to depression.  I say phooey to all that.
     I have no family and few if any close friends.  I never get invited anywhere for Christmas, no one remembers my birthday.  I very rarely if ever get invited anywhere.  I live alone in a government subsidized apartment.  And I refuse to go down with the ship.
     I have one step-cousin with whom I am in contact.  She is terminally ill with cancer.  When she dies the last link between me and my relatives will die with her.  Not a great loss.  They all ignore me anyway.  I have amputated Christmas and every Christmas Day I work at Venture, the small psychiatric hospital that employs me.  I can support and take care of others, stay for dinner and get paid for it.  I celebrate my birthday by flying down to Mexico or Costa Rica for the month of March.  I have friends who are so busy in their daily lives that the very fact that they can even carve out one hour a month to have coffee with me is plenty evidence of their love and care.  Living alone is one of the best things that has ever happened to me.  I never have to wait for the bathroom, tolerate someone else's mess in the kitchen or argue about useless details.  I have infinite time to paint, read, listen to news and educational programs on the radio, write, pray and think and reflect without distraction.  I can afford my rent and live with dignity.
     I greet each new day with a spirit of thanksgiving and curiosity and I face the night with wonder and relief.  My dreams are fascinating, to me anyway.  My work with others in need every day reminds me of how good I have it and I expect that I will continue with this blessing of work that I love well into my retirement.  Even though I lose friends easily sometimes I make them with even greater ease and I am going to continue to be there for others.  My church involvement is tremendously beneficial.  Yes, there have been conflicts and stress lately but the unpleasantness is teaching me to deal more effectively and constructively with disagreement and I intend to continue there.  Painting and other art making is by far one of my most loved activities and this kind of activity is sure to keep my brain young and functioning.
     My most frightening reality check is my own father.  When he retired he gradually isolated himself and became increasingly miserable until he eventually contracted Alzheimer's from which he perished.  I am confident that this will not happen to me.  I have become fluent in Spanish as a second language, and friends in Mexico and Colombia and Spain with whom I communicate by email and Skype and I hope I never lose the joy of learning nor the enjoyment of good daily exercise, nor the sense of wonder of the beauty of creation that surrounds me constantly.
     I will not go gently into that good night.

Through The Dark Night

I used to feel at times suicidal.  This happened a long time ago, when it really seemed as though my life was already over and there was no point in taking up space that could be better used by someone else.  I was completely out of hope.  I was through.  As I was on a downward spiral towards mental illness and homelessness I really thought it was all over.  I was forty-two.  I had already threatened twice to kill myself during the first of what became my seven major breakdowns.  I was unemployed and had no idea how to access the new and changing job market of the Nineties.  There was no one around to show me.   I did attend a couple of compulsory job club introductions when applying for social assistance, but the moral of the story was that I had to kiss ass big time, give up any semblance of having a life and allow any employer to walk all over me and not only fake enjoyment but to actually like, or should I say love, revel, and exult in being treated like a piece of shit by sadistic bosses for minimum wage at a job that would never guarantee me enough hours to live on or any form of security.  I also had full blown and undiagnosed post traumatic stress disorder which made me basically unfit for the workplace.  Still with me?
     In short, my life was a train wreck and there was no sign that anything was ever going to get better.  unable to pay my rent I became homeless and stayed part time with my father in Robert's Creek, a small coastal community that is a forty-five minute ferry ride from the Lower Mainland, the rest of the week couch surfing with various friends in Vancouver.  My father began to mistreat me and that was when I came the very closest to ending it.  Two days before Christmas one evening I was all set to walk into the cold ocean and drown myself.  What stopped me?  I could best call it divine intervention.  I was just headed towards the beach when I felt this incredible force trying to stop me and I knew that if I resisted this force it would be to my peril.  I believe that there was an angel present stopping me from doing it.  I knew that by killing myself I would be violating one of the most cardinal laws of the universe. 
     I remember now when I was nineteen years old and living in Toronto.  I got high on mescaline late one night and had an almost overwhelming desire to die by cutting my wrists.  I did not want to die.  I was a backslidden Christian who still believed in God and I was terrified of facing him in judgment given what a mess I was making of my life. I got onto Yonge Street at around five in the morning and began to hitch hike hoping that someone would pick me up and talk me out of harming myself.  I lucked out very nicely.  A kind stranger gave me a ride all the way past Richmond Hill and back and we talked about life, values, philosophy and related crap and he strongly warned me that suicide is the cardinal sin and that I must never even think of doing that.  He also wanted to know where I got my mescaline!  Two hours later he dropped me off in front of my apartment safe and unharmed and perhaps a little bit wiser and a little more grateful for the existence of good and kind people in the world.
     Fast forward to September 1999.  I was forty-three and living in a shared apartment with an eccentric Czech and his Slovakian roommate.  I finally had a place to live, was on social assistance and sort of looking for employment though miraculously people were buying my paintings again though it wasn't a huge gain because whether I did anything or not my Czech roommate cum landlord reported to one of the financial aid workers at the local welfare office whenever he got word that I'd sold something and I would see the estimated value of the painting deducted from my next welfare check.  The financial aid worker was Czech so there should not be too many dots to connect here.  Needless to say I have never spoken to my former roommate since I moved fourteen years ago.
     Back to my story.  September 1999 one evening I was standing in line at a local café when I heard a young man in front of me say to his companion "Why should anyone care if I kill myself.  It's my life anyway." Or something like that.  I told him "If you were to do that then you would be depriving the world of what only you have to offer."  Oh, the look on his face!  I trust he is still alive. 
     I was also talking to myself, I suppose.  Even though I still had next to nothing I knew that my life had been given a new start, a new beginning.  It was as though I had returned from the dead.  My life has since taken a decidedly different direction.  I would not have imagined that I would be spending much of my later middle years, hopefully until and after my retirement, working as a peer support worker with people living with mental health issues.  Or that I would have a decent apartment that I could afford.  I can't say that I have achieved really a lot in tangibles.  I don't have my own home, family, car, investments, or vacation condo in Mexico.  I have since come to speak Spanish fluently and have amassed an impressive library of over five hundred books, more than one hundred in Spanish.  I seem to be doing well as a painter even though I haven't sold anything in a while.  I travel every year, usually to Mexico or Costa Rica or someplace where Spanish is spoken.  I have also found a church community that feels like home for me and this is a first.
     I like the person I have become and I enjoy life moment by moment.  There are still rough spots, and there will always be rough patches.  I embrace life as a gift and I try to offer it as a gift.  I am glad and eternally grateful that the light I have been given has not been snuffed out, not even by me.  Every day I wake up excited and wondering what is going to happen next.  I hope I never lose this curiosity.
     It is always painful when I am working with someone who is considering suicide.  They are always incredibly sensitive and lovely people whom I know that we would be so much poorer without.  It is hard and long work convincing them of this and even then it doesn't always work.  So far (touch wood) I have not lost anyone with whom I work to suicide.  I sometimes wonder if there was enough good and available support for those who are vulnerable to suicide if that alone would make that nasty statistic plummet.  It is hard to say, but I think that when a lot of us are feeling so faced with our mortality, that we have exhausted all our options and there is nothing left, if it would help to know that this is also a time of rebirth and transformation.  All we have to do is hold on and walk through that dark night, but too many of us walk through it alone.  We need people in the world who are specially gifted to walk with the suicidal together through these dark nights, someone to be there, to encourage, to reinforce, to remind that this is not the end, that who you are, that what you have to offer is too beautiful and too precious to lose. 
     It is not our place to end life, not the life of another person and not our own lives either. My wish and prayer is that we can come to see our lives, and all lives as a precious irreplaceable gift, and to in turn offer up our lives as gifts to one another as we walk together through the darkness.  Again we will find the light.  I know this because I speak as one who has returned from the dead.

Full Disclosure

Today seems almost the opposite to yesterday when everything went so well that I was beginning to get suspicious.  Nothing unusual happened but I was struggling a good part of today with that nasty attack I was subjected to Sunday by a mentally ill woman who goes to my church.  This has already been referred to in an earlier post and I don't see much point in bringing it up again.  What happened this morning was, after walking in the neighbourhood of my church and one of the cafes where my ex-friend and I have met I was, as we say in Mental Health-ese, triggered.  I was re-living this person's attack on me as though it were happening again, which it was not.  It was still an enjoyable walk, a lovely bright sunny morning, not too cold, and I really enjoyed working on a drawing while seated in the café even though I could not shut off this woman's nagging voice telling me that I'm abrupt, that I treat people badly and I will never have any friends.  I don't really accept any of this.  I am assertive and some people don't like that, but I don't harangue those who disagree with me.  Better to get along than be right in my humble opinion.

     When I arrived home her voice was still nagging me and then I realized that this was a PTSD episode, there was nothing to be ashamed of and I had only to ignore it and let it play itself out.  Not easy, but worth it.  I had lunch, phoned a client to confirm our appointment then walked over the bridge to my first meeting place.  Knowing that my client was going to be very late, if he would arrive at all (he was detained for good reason and for reasons of confidentiality there is no need to go into it on this blog).  I sat for an hour in our usual Starbuck's and got a lot of work done on a drawing, still feeling icky from reliving the event of five days ago.  I was able to arm myself with humour and detachment.  The scene was pretty pathetic and silly and I also knew I had done nor said anything to be ashamed of.  I did not swear or raise my voice and I did not blame or accuse her of anything, knowing that it would not only be futile but cruel as well and I will not go there with anyone.  I also reassured myself that this is a normal experience for any survivor of post-traumatic stress disorder and I didn't have to let it rule me.  So, I forced myself to enjoy my surroundings as I walked the remaining two and a half miles to my next work assignment and even enjoyed myself at times.  While with my clients at Venture, the small psychiatric facility where I work twice a week I stayed focussed on their needs and situations and during a lull period there was time to do some more work on my drawing while chatting with clients and one of the psychiatrists (who seemed also to enjoy seeing my art.)

     On the way home my mood was different.  I felt more emotionally exhausted from handling this threat of a relapse while juggling it with my professional obligations.  Altogether I was and still am feeling better but also tired.  I went to my Spanish conversation group as I do on most Fridays but couldn't stay.  There were three of us at my table: a woman whose spoken Spanish is still quite poor, myself (I am very fluent) and our facilitator who is a native of Mexico.  The old woman tends to be quite pushy and monopolizing and needy of attention and she easily hogged all of our facilitator's time as she often does.   Having nothing to do but sit and watch I became bored and impatient and left early, possibly to the distress of the facilitator, but I was also too emotionally worn out from work and dealing with this nagging trigger to be much good.  I also yelled at a cab driver whose car hogged the crosswalk (there was plenty of room for him to back up) and went home feeling simultaneously relieved and guilty.  I have sent an email to the Spanish group co-ordinator asking her to reassure others in the group that my sudden departure was nothing personal and that I simply understand this old woman's need for extra attention.

     I do not know if I will ever fully conquer this leftover of PTSD.  I have learned to live with it and in a way play with it.  Laughter often helps when all else has failed. So does writing in this blog.

Full Disclosure

Today seems almost the opposite to yesterday when everything went so well that I was beginning to get suspicious.  Nothing unusual happened but I was struggling a good part of today with that nasty attack I was subjected to Sunday by a mentally ill woman who goes to my church.  This has already been referred to in an earlier post and I don't see much point in bringing it up again.  What happened this morning was, after walking in the neighbourhood of my church and one of the cafes where my ex-friend and I have met I was, as we say in Mental Health-ese, triggered.  I was re-living this person's attack on me as though it were happening again, which it was not.  It was still an enjoyable walk, a lovely bright sunny morning, not too cold, and I really enjoyed working on a drawing while seated in the café even though I could not shut off this woman's nagging voice telling me that I'm abrupt, that I treat people badly and I will never have any friends.  I don't really accept any of this.  I am assertive and some people don't like that, but I don't harangue those who disagree with me.  Better to get along than be right in my humble opinion.

     When I arrived home her voice was still nagging me and then I realized that this was a PTSD episode, there was nothing to be ashamed of and I had only to ignore it and let it play itself out.  Not easy, but worth it.  I had lunch, phoned a client to confirm our appointment then walked over the bridge to my first meeting place.  Knowing that my client was going to be very late, if he would arrive at all (he was detained for good reason and for reasons of confidentiality there is no need to go into it on this blog).  I sat for an hour in our usual Starbuck's and got a lot of work done on a drawing, still feeling icky from reliving the event of five days ago.  I was able to arm myself with humour and detachment.  The scene was pretty pathetic and silly and I also knew I had done nor said anything to be ashamed of.  I did not swear or raise my voice and I did not blame or accuse her of anything, knowing that it would not only be futile but cruel as well and I will not go there with anyone.  I also reassured myself that this is a normal experience for any survivor of post-traumatic stress disorder and I didn't have to let it rule me.  So, I forced myself to enjoy my surroundings as I walked the remaining two and a half miles to my next work assignment and even enjoyed myself at times.  While with my clients at Venture, the small psychiatric facility where I work twice a week I stayed focussed on their needs and situations and during a lull period there was time to do some more work on my drawing while chatting with clients and one of the psychiatrists (who seemed also to enjoy seeing my art.)

     On the way home my mood was different.  I felt more emotionally exhausted from handling this threat of a relapse while juggling it with my professional obligations.  Altogether I was and still am feeling better but also tired.  I went to my Spanish conversation group as I do on most Fridays but couldn't stay.  There were three of us at my table: a woman whose spoken Spanish is still quite poor, myself (I am very fluent) and our facilitator who is a native of Mexico.  The old woman tends to be quite pushy and monopolizing and needy of attention and she easily hogged all of our facilitator's time as she often does.   Having nothing to do but sit and watch I became bored and impatient and left early, possibly to the distress of the facilitator, but I was also too emotionally worn out from work and dealing with this nagging trigger to be much good.  I also yelled at a cab driver whose car hogged the crosswalk (there was plenty of room for him to back up) and went home feeling simultaneously relieved and guilty.  I have sent an email to the Spanish group co-ordinator asking her to reassure others in the group that my sudden departure was nothing personal and that I simply understand this old woman's need for extra attention.

     I do not know if I will ever fully conquer this leftover of PTSD.  I have learned to live with it and in a way play with it.  Laughter often helps when all else has failed. So does writing in this blog.

Gratitude

I've been having a  good day.  I've been having a better than average day.  I've been having a great day.  Be still my beating heart.  Could I be dreaming?  Hallucinating?  Have I died and gone to Heaven?  I have had an almost flawless day.  It is not quite over.  It is 7:00 pm pst and I still have to get through the evening and get to bed okay and hope that I sleep alright and wake up on time for work tomorrow without problems or incidents.  I think it is likely to happen this way.  I woke up early this morning following a good sleep and interesting dreams.  I left early for work and had time to walk for an hour or three miles so I got off the bus early. Everything went well with my first client, a native Spanish speaker who speaks little English and following a two mile walk I had coffee with my second client, then after taking public transit part way then walking for a half hour I persuaded my third client to get out of the house and join me for a walk and coffee shop visit in this fabulous weather. After I bought groceries, mostly blood oranges at a nearby market, walked for a half hour and bussed the rest of the way home.  A young mother very kindly gave me her seat on the crowded bus.  Having arrived home I had a blast making something new and unusual for dinner (look for the recipe at the end of the article), have eaten to my satisfaction and now I'm listening to the As It Happens news and current events program on CBC Radio One.
     Hello?  Still with me?  I'm sure this must make for awfully dull reading for you dear readers.  Not a single complaint, no cynical or ironical remarks, no sarcasm.  Can you bear such insipidity?  But this doesn't feel insipid.  It feels fine, just completely and absolutely fine.  Nothing unusual, positive or negative has happened today, at least not for me.  It has been a very ordinary day.  To many I might have so little, but I feel rich, I feel almost obscenely wealthy.  I have more than enough food to eat and living in Vancouver there is an incredible variety of good and interesting food.  Like the blood oranges I bought today.  There are people here in this city who do not get enough food to eat.  They rely on food banks and a lot of them work for a living.  Full time.  Even though I am one of the poor who live in Canada (I make less than $20,000 a year) and have been much poorer, I have never gone to a food bank.  I have never gone hungry.  Doing the math it doesn't seem to figure.  But I have been homeless because of this same poverty.  When faced with the option of food or shelter I opted for food.  My health, wellbeing and my mortal life will always take priority over having a roof over my head.  I can deal creatively with homelessness, I have in the past and I hope and trust that this will never happen again.  Of course, being homeless is in itself hazardous to good health but even if I can stay reasonably well fed I will at least have a running start to getting my life together once I find a place to live, which is basically the way things turned out for me.
     I have a decent apartment.  It is small, a bachelor unit, one large room with a kitchen and bathroom.  Folks, used to better, look on me with pity and having a separate bedroom (at least one!) and a living room, and perhaps even a dining room, den and guest room, they simply are not able to appreciate their good fortune.  To me it is huge good fortune simply having a place to live especially in this obscenely expensive city I call my home.  Even better since I have my own bathroom and kitchen.  Absolutely stupendous that the rent is to me affordable, always less than thirty percent of my monthly income goes to rent and utilities. 
     I have nice clothes.  Almost everything I wear I have bought second hand, most likely at Value Village; my coat I bought new, my socks and underwear I always buy new (oh, why would I even have to explain that?).  I have received at work as Christmas gifts three shirts and two pairs of jeans and some socks, a toque, scarf and gloves.  When I was desperately poor I found in a free box or hanging on fences two beautiful sweaters and a Harris tweed coat which I still have and wear.  I have all these great clothes.  I feel richly garbed, maybe not in fashion but I've never cared a rat's ass.
     I enjoy good health.  Yes I am still overweight but have lost half of it.  My blood pressure and cholesterol are down again since I made some modifications in my diet.  I walk at least five, usually seven, miles a day and exercise at home.  Even though sixty is beginning to loom for me I think I have been blessed with incredible good robust health.
     I have friends.  I like them.  I like my church.
     I love my profession.  Even the low pay isn't enough to discourage me from wanting to get out of bed every morning.
     I have more or less mastered Spanish as a second language, which I only began to seriously learn fourteen years ago while already well into my forties.
     On my low income I am still able to travel to Mexico and beyond every year for at least a month.  The sun and culture are lovely, as well as the opportunity of improving my Spanish and meeting new friends.
     I have an excellent personal library, tons, more than five hundred great books in English and Spanish (that I've been able to obtain more than one hundred books in Spanish in itself is an achievement) proudly encased in bookshelves in my apartment.
     I could go on, but there is no need to.  I could lose everything overnight.  I could die in my sleep.  I could be scandalously and tragically betrayed, which has happened in the past.  I fear none of these losses and I know that should I have to face such losses that I will still come out okay.
     I have earned none of what I have.  I accept all these things and more as a gift.

Curried Cabbage

cabbage leaves coarsely chopped or shredded,
three to four cloves of garlic chopped
one large onion chopped
one cake of extra firm tofu
soy sauce to taste
wine vinegar to taste
one heaping table spoon curry powder
a few shakes of allspice
several shakes dry sweet basil
olive oil to line an enamel cooking dish, skillet or wok
sweet red pepper chopped
two large tomatoes chopped
half cup or more of chopped cheese (could be cheddar, Swiss, edam, gouda, or one of those basic cheeses.  Not blue, or brie or anything like that)

heat cooking vessel with enough olive oil to make it slick at medium heat, put in garlic, onion tofu, soy sauce and wine vinegar.  Simmer covered till onion nearly transparent.  Add curry powder, allspice and sweet basil and stir in, then add chopped red pepper and tomato, stir in then add cabbage and stir then cheese and stir more.  Simmer covered at medium heat, stirring frequently, or till cabbage tender.  Serves four to six.

Vegetarians Taste Better

I always look out for bumper stickers.  I love them.  A lot of them are pretty banal or shallow: how many times to we need to know who drove the Coquihalla? or whose daughter made the honour role? or whose pet gerbil made the honour role? or whose Maine Coon Cat is more intelligent than your daughter who made the honour role? I use a voice mail service for people on low incomes.  For twenty bucks a year I have full service.  I haven't changed my greeting in years: "Tell me everything."  When my voice mail was my main, actually my only form of communication, and I was getting more phone calls since it seemed that I actually had friends in those days (how can you tell I feel a little bit neglected these days?) I would run a regular feature on my greeting called "Bumper Sticker of the Week."  This would include any kind of clever, unusual or off beat kind of bumper sticker I happened to notice that I was sure was going to make someone's day.  Here's one of my faves: "When I die I want to go peacefully and quietly in my sleep, just like Grandpa: not crying and screaming like the occupants in the back seat of his car."  I have also noticed various takes on being vegetarian, from "Meat Is Murder" to "Animals Are My Friends.  I Don't Eat My Friends," to my screaming favourite bumper sticker of all "Vegetarians Taste Better."  If you haven't figured out which one of those three made it as bumper sticker of the week then I'll give you three guesses; the first two don't count.
     I have been vegetarian for most of the last twenty years.  Notice I said I have been vegetarian, not a vegetarian.  It is an adjective, not a noun, at least in my case.  Not eating meat, or chicken, or turkey, duck, goose, or Jonathan Livingston Seagull, or fish or seafood does not define me.  It is one of many features in the person I am becoming.  I usually don't even think about it, unless I am eating out, which doesn't happen too often, and have to search and scrutinize the menu with a magnifying glass to find anything that I'm able to eat.  Restaurants here in Vancouver are generally pretty good and per capita there are a lot of vegetarians in this city.  It is also easy in Costa Rica for some reason, but not in Mexico.  In Mexico City, otherwise known for its foodyism and great restaurants, there is a little flexibility but not much and when I'm there I often have to be a bit creative.
     Someone recently asked me if I ever "cheat on my diet."  I didn't know what she was referring to till she mentioned if I ever like to sneak a tasty morsel of chicken or steak when no one's looking.  Well, no, never. You see, I don't like meat.  I find it gross.  I didn't specifically quit eating meat for ethical reasons.  I just didn't like it anymore.  One day in early July of 1993 I realized that I had gone five days without eating meat and realized I did not miss it at all.  I thought I'd try another five days, focussing exclusively on avoiding red meat.  Within weeks I gave up all forms of red meat without having to even think about it. About a year later, following my first trip to Costa Rica where I ate quite a lot of chicken I found myself looking at a photo portrait of the profile of the head and neck of a white peacock that illustrates the frontispiece of one of my many bird books.  Above is an image of a painting I did of a white peacock.  Not for sale, since a charming lady from Istanbul is now its proud owners.  I love birds, esthetically but also as fellow beings on the planet.  Seeing how much this peacock resembled a chicken I realized in less than a minute that I would no longer be eating birds of any kind, shape or form.  A year later in 1995 I gave up fish, thinking, yeah, well, in for a penny in for a pound.
     During this entire process of becoming vegetarian never once did I think about animal rights, nor of animals or sentient beings, nor of protecting the environment.  Simply put, I didn't want it any more.  I found it gross and disgusting.  I found it unnecessary.  I have long believed that meat, at least in the quantities that it is eaten in developed countries, is not a natural food for humans.  My reasons?  All anecdotal so I can't bore anyone with statistics and studies.  However, of any food group, it has always been hardest for me to try and learn to stomach meat coming from an unfamiliar animal.  This eventually led me to believe that maybe my body was trying to tell me something.  Just yesterday in the staff room of one of the mental health teams where I work one of our co-workers came in with her baby and mentioned that the only new food she has trouble getting a taste for is any kind of meat.  More recently it has also occurred to me that in every single human culture, no matter how "primitive" meat is almost always cooked before it is eaten.  (please do not ask, "And what about sushi?")  Raw meat is hard to digest and because of pathogens is generally dangerous to the health.  If we were meant to be meat eaters then someone please explain to me why we don't eat it raw, of why the very idea makes most people nauseous.  So to those who zealously promote the Atkins Diet or the Paleolithic Diet please try it by all means, only be sure to eat your meat uncooked.  Then tell us about it.
     The first time I became vegetarian I was eighteen and remained vegetarian for almost two years.  I read Frances Moore Lappe's famous book "Diet For A Small Planet" and was instantly won over."  Her argument for vegetarianism was and still remains flawless.  I was especially inspired by her findings of the huge ecological footprint left by meat production.  Sheep do less ecological harm than cows, pigs less than sheep, chicken less (way less) than pigs, soy beans less than chickens.  Resuming vegetarian eating seems to have helped reawaken and inform my concern for the environment, as well as the dignity and wellbeing of animals.  As studies have found that animals have more intelligence and greater emotional intelligence and moral sense than previously believed it makes killing and eating them, for me anyway, all the more odious.  On the other hand, it is easy for me to say this since I am not living with the Inuit in the Arctic neither do I live in a hunter-gatherer society.  Living in the lap of luxury that is Canada it can be so terribly easy to take ethical positions such as vegetarianism.  I sometimes remind myself that Hitler was a vegetarian.  And a non-smoker, so I take great care not to demonize carnivores.  Smokers are not so lucky.
     Full disclosure: I eat eggs.  Not free range organic.  Too expensive when you earn a low income.  And I am not giving up cheese omelettes.  I also wear leather, shoes and belt.  I suppose this makes me a bit of a hypocrite or fence-sitter.  Instead of rationalizing my compromises let's just say that I tend to accept trade-offs and even if I cannot play a full role in making life easier for nonhuman animals and the environment at least I can do a little bit.

Here's another one of my peacock paintings.  Yes I did paint this.  Check my website: thesearepaintings.googlepages.com, if you want to see some more.  And yes, they are all for sale!

     I can't say whether my health has improved significantly or that I feel better since giving up meat and anyway, those weren't my reasons for becoming vegetarian.  It hasn't kept me from gaining fifty unneeded pounds, given my love for cheese, butter and cream.  With my doctor's support I have cut a lot of dairy fat out of my diet and have lost nearly half the weight I've gained.  I have neither given up cheese or switched to the low fat varieties (insipid and boring).  I simply use less and savour more.  Still, I have to laugh whenever I think of a cartoon ad I saw in Mexico City.  There was an obese family stuffing their pie-holes with hamburger's and KFC or whatever and they were asking a family of slender and healthy looking vegetarians "but what do you eat for protein, or "Pero que comen ustedes de proteina?"
     Ultimately I think we are en masse going to have to accept some major changes in our diet and eating patterns and habits if we are going to survive the Twenty-First Century.  Emerging world economies such as China, India, Brazil and Mexico are consuming more meat than ever because, let's face it, meat is a status symbol.  It is expensive to produce.  If you're doing well you are likely going to eat it whether you really enjoy it or not. 
     We are all going to have to face the reality of giving up meat, of going vegetarian.  Switching to fish isn't the answer as our declining fish stocks and local extinctions due to changes in ocean currents from global warming can attest.  For those who really want to kill their food there are trillions of insects swarming the planet, many of them both edible and tasty.  (no, I haven't tried any of them.  I'm vegetarian, okay?)  Meanwhile our global human population is more than seven billion and rising fast.  I have read that the maximum human population that the earth can comfortably sustain should never rise about one and a half billion.  Hopefully we will figure it out one day soon before we eat our way to Armageddon. 

William Blake said in his Proverbs of Hell that the "Pride of the Peacock is the Glory of God."  This brings to mind how often we project our own human characterisitics onto other living things.

Instead of seeing the unmatched beauty of these gorgeous birds our vision is often eclipsed by conferring onto them  our own flaws and weaknesses of pride, vainglory and vanity. 

Here is another take on the peacock that I enjoy: they have historically been regarded as symbols of the resurrection of Christ and as symbols of healing, purity and eternal life.

Peacocks for me beg to be painted.  I have never tackled a subject so challenging nor from which in each painting I've learned something new about colour, composition and light.

I don't see the peacock as a proud bird and I am sure that they never look at mirrors.  Perhaps they can serve as a mirror for us to look into.

 

 

 

Another one of my peacock paintings.  This one is green.  They actually do exist, and the most dazzling live on the Island of Java in Indonesia.  Peacocks are a close relative to the chicken, but not as tasty, and anyway, who would eat a peacock?

thesearepaintings.googlepages.com.

    

So You Think I'm Angry? Deal With It!!!

"If you're not angry you're not paying attention."  This has to be one of the best graffiti samples I have seen spray-painted on a Vancouver wall.  I just did a quick Google search and apparently the author is unknown.  Anger is our baseline.  Everyone is angry about something, but that things do not live up to our hopes, expectations or needs and that this happens en masse is plenty reason to be perpetually outraged.  It isn't that everyone walks around frowning all day, though I would say that a lot of people I see in public look, shall we say, borderline miserable?  I tend to smile a lot.  I can't say why, really.  I am quite angry, like everyone else.  But I'm not miserable.  I am not bitter, nor am I hostile or spoiling for a fight (well, I'm not spoiling for a fight with any of you, gentle readers!).  I am angry for some very simple and basic reasons:  we live in a society, and a world, that is hugely unequal.  I am angry about injustice.  I am angry about what is being done to our planet and the environment because of some people's stupid greed, I am angry about (not at) people who refuse to communicate clearly or honestly, I am angry about cruelty, rudeness and unkindness, I am angry about cruelty to animals.  I am also angry that the city I live in and grew up in has become such an ungrateful and unfaithful whore turning her pretty and painted face towards foreign investment and has turned so brazenly against her poorest and most vulnerable denizens.  I'm sure that I also have my share of leftover anger from some of the unpleasant experiences I have had in life.  But I have also had a lot of good experiences and to me they outweigh the negative by at least two to one.
     I have been told by some people that I appear to be full of anger and this frightens them.  By others that I am, or was full of anger and in denial about it.  My reply?  We're all full of anger, we're all on the verge of a collective meltdown, not just me, but you also and all of us, the whole freaking, damaged and wounded human race is seething with rage so let's shut up and deal with it already!
     Anger is a type of energy.  It is neither bad nor good.  It is energy.  It is in all of us.  We all have it.  Most of us use or channel it destructively.  Anger uses us destructively.  It doesn't have to be destructive.  I was homeless.  This made me very angry.  I am still angry about this, but I have channelled this anger into advocating and activism on behalf of those who are homeless and I challenge people in elected positions to do more to eliminate poverty and homelessness and help make this a more equal society.  This is my way of saying thank you to God and to the many who have been his instruments in helping me get back on my feet.
    I was abused for years by members of my family, sexually, physically, emotionally and spiritually.  I have forgiven them but I am still angry that this has happened and that through their selfish ignorance I became ill for many years with post traumatic stress disorder.  I have forgiven my family and now I am channelling this anger into supporting and caring for others who have been traumatized and live with mental illness.  I was abused and persecuted in churches I was previously involved in.  I am still angry, not that this happened but that it was allowed to happen, but I have forgiven my abusers and I am channelling this anger into serving God and others in the church that I currently call my spiritual home.  I was recently spoken to in some very abusive and degrading ways by a mentally unbalanced woman who attends my church all on the pretext that I had frightened her with my anger (the charge?  I on three occasions politely asked her to please let me finish what I was trying to say when she kept chronically interrupting me.)  I am still angry that this happened and I am going to channel this anger through forgiveness.
     There are many things to be angry about, but just as many or more to be thankful and grateful for.  We can even be grateful for the lessons we can learn through the experiences that make us angry.  As for the anger itself, it is bound to linger and will likely never go away.  Admit this, own it, and channel it for good.  Stripped of bitterness, resentment and the ugliness of self-pity anger can be transformed into a powerful and hugely constructive force of love.  Love will not take away our anger (remember that Jesus cleansed the temple in a fit of divine rage and then let in on the Scribes and Pharisees?  Not always meek and certainly not mild, this Lord of ours.)  However, if stripped of self-pity and the desire for revenge and empowered through forgiveness God will transform our anger into a powerful force of transformation and change.  Anger without forgiveness always results in destruction, self-destruction and even war.  Anger that has been cleansed by forgiveness and Divine Love becomes in itself a passionate intensity, a desire and longing to see the Kingdom of God made manifest in our lives and in our world.

What's A Jesus Freak Like Me Doing In A Nice Church Like This?

Christian community does not have to be an oxymoron.  I think once we give up our dreams and ideals of community we begin to see things a little more clearly and this is essential for building a new community.  When I started attending St. Paul's I was still recovering from trauma resulting from church and religious abuse.  It took me a long time to learn to trust anyone there and I still to this day struggle with trust.  Now that I am assured that no one is out to discredit, ostracise me or pressure me to go on medications that I do not need (yes, it did get that bad in my previous Anglican parish) I have even made a few friends here.  I have also lost a couple but this has already been covered in my last post.  This morning as I was worrying and fretting about my poor relations with people at church I realized that I was not considering the many more with whom I have a sense of friendship.  The glass is half full.  More than half. 
     I had to decide that I was going to tough it out at St. Paul's.  I have spent many years going from church to church and running from church and now at St. Paul's especially given my age it is time to stop running.  Now I have to see these dragons reckoned with and pacified, since they will neither die nor run away.  For my first five years I seemed always on the verge of leaving.  I was often taking long holidays from church, often for many months.  It was all very stressful for a long time and given that I work in a stressful occupation (mental health support), coming to church Sundays into another stressful environment simply compounded things, making it difficult for me to do my job well because it was so exhausting.  Deciding that going to church was never going to feed me or pay my rent, for the sake of keeping my job I decided to treat myself to extended breaks from St. Paul's as needed.  This has been actually very effective, and needed and even though my attendance has been nearly flawless for most of the last two years, I am still holding onto this option and will continue to apply as needed.
     I have always been outspoken and a bit suspicious of others, not a good combination of traits if one wants to make friends in a new church.  The rector and I began to visit on a regular, almost monthly, basis, meeting to dine in a very pleasant Thai restaurant just two blocks from the church.  We didn't always agree, in fact, we often clashed, especially during the first year.
     My first red flag with the previous rector occurred during our first meeting, in the church office, when I became concerned that he was trying to play psychiatrist with me.  Such disrespect!  I did not delay in setting the boundary.  I told him "You are not my therapist and you are not going to become my therapist.  I already saw a psychiatrist for four years and as much as I value the therapy I have received this is not the sequel"  With a little trepidation he consented to my demand.  I was clashing with a lot of parishioners, not because I was a particularly aggressive person but because we are a church full of hurting people with festering wounds and issues and baggage.  There were also some major differences between us.  I am a pacifist.  The previous rector and most of St. Paul's at the time were staunch supporters of the Canadian Military and the war in Afghanistan.  My pacifism, and my outspokenness about it made me some enemies.  So did my strong opinions about sex.  St. Paul's has a high GBLT population and they are all in very different places with their sexuality and spirituality.  I was not comfortable with the connection to the annual Gay Pride Parade (I'm still a bit ambivalent) and what I consider to be rather loose morals among some parishioners.  To be perfectly frank, I am okay with same sex marriage. I am not okay with extra or premarital sex at least not for Christians.  And I particularly bridle when I see or hear about people being sexualized and sexually objectified, especially by professing Christians.  Easy for me I guess, given that I'm asexual and therefore impartial, but seriously folks.  If gay Christians wish to be taken seriously then they had better be prepared to order their personal lives in much the same way that straight Christians are asked to order theirs: no sex before marriage and within marriage only with your covenanted partner.  That is not my teaching if you must quibble about it, it is throughout the New Testament.  Go tell it to the Judge.  Try and argue with the Boss.
     My inauspicious beginnings in St. Paul's also didn't help.  I began attending just a month or two before Stewardship Month and found myself under constant pressure to start shoving out money that I did not have for the church.  After just two months attendance.  Even after I told them that I was on a low income, pulling in less than fifteen grand a year they still wouldn't leave me alone about money.  Then came the miscommunications and more miscommunications and the previous rector's unfortunate tendency of refusing to think or say anything unflattering about his beloved parishioners.  Especially if they happened to be among his circle of favourites.  And never tell a mother that her children are ugly.  Well, I told him, "Ma, your kids are ugly.  Plug ugly, butt ugly hideous!"  After several tries he finally stopped getting defensive and upon hearing some very plausible accounts from me about mistreatment I had received by certain parishioners actually began to pay attention and act on my behalf.
     It's better now, I would even say much better.  I even have a few friends in the parish, and even sometimes visit them for coffee or dinner, when I can successfully pull them away from their many all-engrossing activities, and vice-versa. (you know who you are and from the bottom of my heart, Thanks!!)  The idea of community so lovely and beguiling, in practice is still very frightening.  We have to be willing to move closer together if community is going to happen, which means moving further out from our comfort zones.  One faltering, staggering step at a time.