Life As Performance Art 56

When you are reading this little blogpost, Gentle Reader, please remind yourself of the title of this series. Life As Performance Art. So, while I want some of this writing to be taken a little bit seriously, that you also keep in mind that this is performance art. Because life is performance art. Yes, it is or can be very serious, this thing we call life, but at the end of the day, duckies, it can also be kind of fun, if we can learn to laugh our way through some of the inevitable misery. But that is exactly what we need to do, and it takes years, nearly a lifetime to acquire this so very essential life- skill, so that by the time we seem to be just beginning to get it right, then the Grim Reaper comes a-calling and it's game over. Seems kind of unfair, eh? It is kind of like playing. Maybe a little bit serious play, but please, duckies, always keep your tongue close to your cheek while reading this, because I sure am. Do I mean all the awful things that I write about some people, places and things? Well, yes, sort of. But even if I am not smiling when I write these things (often I want to strangle a few people while writing this blog!), I often am smiling or even laughing later, and I want this to be your experience too, Gentle Reader. I still mean all the awful things I have written about the Anglican Church. My experience of that um....sacred....institution has been at best mixed, at worst, nightmarish and traumatizing. It seems that only now in this past year are some of the horrors and abuses that I experienced finally being addressed. And this also speaks praise to the current archbishop of this Diocese of New Westminster, Melissa Skelton, who is kindly looking into my claims of abuse and my desire for an apology. That did not happen under her predecessor, Michael Ingham, who was a disaster as a bishop, and never responded to my letter when I detailed to him some of the problems I was incurring from clergy. Quite likely one of his helpers intercepted it before it arrived on his desk and shredded it without even troubling to open the envelope. maybe she thought it was a letter bomb. But no one else in the church seemed to want to talk about it, or help me with the issues. In fact, any priest I wanted to talk to about the harm that was done to me seemed in an awful hurry to make themselves as unavailable to me as possible. As though I was carrying some deadly virus and they didn't want to catch it. Yes, yesterday, I heard the priest at my church explain that he had been traumatized by all the hate mail he received around that time over his support for marriage equality, but the way he went about things was quite pig-headed and stupid, so he did sit up and beg for it, so I am reserving my tears for a worthier tragedy. Will I ever actually renew my commitment to the Anglican Institution? Time will tell. I am in no hurry, much as I like the people in my church, and my priest as well. Life is a gift, even more than play or performance art. This day, I receive from God as a gift. This beautiful quiet morning, the sunshine, the nature bursting at the seams on this last day of May, and the opportunity to see friends, make new friends and go through this day with open eyes and an open heart, and hopefully with an open mind. Also open hands with which I can both give and receive. It isn't going to be perfect, neither are things going to go according to my expectations. But really, darlings, shouldn't that also be accepted as something good? Happy Friday!