Jesus Pudding

            I would love to be an Atheist. To rid my life of the complications that come with faith. It would be easier to take responsibility for my past, and my present, rather than using something divine as an easy go-to in deflection; to hold myself fully accountable for my actions. No fate, no predestination, and no angels or demons to sway me. There would merely be the path I have chosen and my feet to lead the way. Unfortunately, my experiences, my spirit, and most importantly my mind, cannot abandon all I have come to understand. No matter what has come to be, I just can't shake Jesus.

            I am not a Christian. I do not believe Jesus was God incarnate. I do not believe in the tenets of the Faith, nor do I believe Christianity is an exclusive club of people elected to heaven because of their religious association with the Christ. I do not believe the Bible is an infallible transcript of the Word of God. I do believe that scripture contains something Holy. While not necessarily a map to our salvation, it guides us if we use it correctly. I suppose it is how one applies scripture that will determine whether the essence of its teachings are being followed. To coin a phrase, "Don’t practice what you preach, preach what you practice." Despite the truths I have acknowledged in the Judeo-Christian tradition, the security, the guarantees promised to the fold of the Christian Messiah never really took root in my adult sensibilities. Frankly, I've never really been sure what to believe.

            I know I believe in God. I have sensed Him in Spirit and I have tried to see Him in the Light. Despite everything I have learned, and all I realize I am unable to know, I cannot ignore my own witness. No matter how I have struggled to put such things behind me, they seem inescapable. The further I try to walk away, the louder they call out to me. I see no vision, no ghostly expression, it is all within my mind and soul. I know it is real, for me. There is a connection that, so far, has no end. I tend to view Jesus as an archetype, the original foundation which Christian history, and dogma, views as authoritative. He is a Divine reference point for those who were born in a certain place and a certain time. As with Buddha, or Mohammed, mankind seems to need a figurehead to look towards for guidance. We create this "image" to clarify, to validate and to moderate us. Mankind, of course, has never been afraid to follow something that holds promise, despite any realization of the damage it can and will do. There is something off-putting about it.
            I'm not much for religion. I believe that God hates religion. While I will concede it does good for many, I will also argue it does many no good. Often the very centre of religious thought can drive a person to insanity. Sometimes great men of God, born-again and bubbly, will take to arms, striking down their supposed enemy in some personal, or esoteric, pseudo-Jihad. So many people have fallen in the name of god that it can be hard to believe He is there at all, let alone listening, responding and interacting with the human race. I can't help but wonder if He ever intercedes at all, considering His "from a distance" approach to mankind. Historical proof of Jesus aside, is He with us at all?
            There have been times I have failed to understand my need to keep Jesus in my life. He is etched in my makeup, at least it would seem so. I do not believe I have a choice. I am His servant, having been born to a Christian experience rather than a Jewish one, or a Sikh one. It is almost as if I am supposed to trust that God placed me in my reality, versus another, and it is against this setting that my life is measured. How does one measure? How can one be sure there is something more? How can one confirm that God is working in the life they lead? Is there a way to affirm all this praying, and doing, means anything at all? Is this all just hyperbole?  Are we out of our minds? Why do we, as a people, continue to question and continue to ponder despite silence from heaven above? How can we be sure? For this labelled sinner, the answer is simple: 

The proof is in the pudding.
 
"Real life isn't always going to be perfect or go our way, but the recurring acknowledgement of what is working in our lives can help us not only to survive but surmount our difficulties.” (Sarah Ban Breathnach, American writer)
 
            In June of 1995, five months after a suicide attempt, I was contacted by the Catholic Diocese of London, Ontario regarding a Near Death Experience. From what I understood, one of the health care workers from my time of recuperation had contacted the Church in order to share my story of survival. A Priest contacted me and asked for an interview regarding what had happened. He was primarily interested in the phenomena I experienced and the lack of effect to my physical shell. I have to admit I was more than interested in this turn of events. I myself wished greater understanding, and clarity, and agreed to meet in the hopes I would finally have a few answers and some spiritual resolution. He was miracle hunting.
            There was never any question that something strange had happened to me that night. No matter how anyone tried to rationalize, or minimize, the event, I just could not find their conclusions acceptable. So much was unexplained. Not one person, in all these years, has been able to explicate the events, or lack thereof. While I have learned that there are some things we are not meant to understand, still, when science can tell us the age of a maggot on a corpse and therefore conclude time of death, one would assume it should be more than able to define my experience or, minimally, confirm what did or did not happen to me that night and into the next day.
            The Priest started with the physical evidence. I told him about the Valium and how I made sure to take them on an empty stomach. I explained how I dropped all 100 x 10 mg little blue buttons as if they were Tic Tacs. We discussed the 15 hours I spent in the cold. From 9 p.m. on Sunday, the 19th of February, until around noon the next day, I laid in the snow, exposed to the winter and -7 degrees Celsius. I noted the lack of covering I took with me into the dark. He questioned me with great interest, focusing on the absence of consequence to me physically. No frostbite, not even a little frost burn was found upon my body at its discovery, or later at the hospital. Although it took me two days to wake up, no evidence of any other side effect, from the Valium or the act, could be found. It was almost as if I had done nothing at all. We talked about the tunnel and we talked about the light. I explained the two figures cloaked in the bright. I explained how one left its place and took me to safety. He seemed unsurprised when I revealed the words spoken to me. He told me how common they were in these phenomena. I watched him write it down word for word: "You cannot come, it is not your time." At the time, I had no idea about the Near Death Experience, but I learned quickly that these types of occurrences happen with great frequency. He informed me that my experience, including what he called "interference healing", were not uncommon throughout history and our modern world.                         

            Although we later decided not to continue with this exploration ( I am not Catholic), the initial investigation did act as a catalyst for my critical study of Christianity. While that Priest passed away in 2007, and despite never seeing him again, that initial meeting changed my way of thinking. He revealed to me a great opportunity. He told me that my example could stand for others to gain strength from, and like with the figures in my NDE, most often it is not about the who, or how, but rather, the why. Anything else would be up to me. Again, it is almost as if I am supposed to trust that God placed me in my experience and it is my experience by which my life is evaluated. Maybe all my questions had already been answered. Maybe it was Him. Most days I feel like I'm swimming in pudding. Sometimes I discover Jesus trying to pull me under. For me, the only proof I need of something more is my continuing existence. I should have been dead years ago. I thrive. Although I may have not been led, through Divine intercession, to a specific faith structure, I still continue to look for Jesus at the bottom of every cup. My interaction is not mere words or clanging cymbals. 

            I am painfully aware of my human imperfection. I am still all I have ever been, but I am not buried in who I am not. I still get angry, I still screw up. I hate. I still doubt and question and, many days, even curse God in heaven. Jesus, most often, pisses me off. I get incensed when He seems to ignore what His followers are saying and doing to those not included in His kingdom. In all my years, I have never witnessed any form of Divine Justice. I look around and see how Christianity, and almost all forms of religion, cause more conflicts than they solve.  I do not understand why something so omnipotent doesn't just fix all the problems instead of letting them linger, century after century.
            For years, I went looking for answers in other directions. I tried to find my way by getting away from Jesus and all that Christianity entails. In the end, I did not need to. Jesus' example, His message, was underlying in almost every other faith or belief system. The universal truths were wrapped in cultural perspective, but they relayed the same substance. The Priest was correct. I did not need to go looking elsewhere when the answers were right in front of me. Why would anyone beg on a street corner if they have money in the bank? Why would anyone buy a dozen roses if they have 12 bushes blooming in their very own front yard? All the time, what I was looking for I had already found. It is this example and His true message I cannot escape. These simple ideas represent the epitome of grace and mercy. It is because of when and where I was born that He is my messenger, even though so many other faiths, at base, teach the same things. It is so simple, like God's love for us. It is not conditioned. It does not hold favour. It has nothing to do with religion.
            Jesus came to abolish religion. He came to set us free, not restrict us. Just because someone goes to Church, or they claim to be born again, or even read the Bible, doesn’t make them a Christian. Just because someone believes they see does not mean they have seen the whole picture. Believing you have vision does not always make it so.  People should know you are a child of God by your actions, your "fruit of the spirit," not by your claims or labels or formulas. Just because you bought a leather jacket on the weekend does not automatically make you a member of the Hell's Angels. 
            Religion can be destructive. Religion is often dubious. It tends to feed those it merits as saved, while everyone else goes hungry. It is exclusive. It does not preach what it practices. Religion is like trying to dress someone who has been cremated;  there is not a lot to work with. Why wax a rotten apple? Why put lipstick on a pig? It is behavior modification. An opiate for the masses. An invention.
 
"Out of intense complexities intense simplicities emerge." (Winston Churchill)
 

            Every day that I wake up, I recognize how fortunate I am to have this life, thorns and all. I still sin. I still hurt. I most certainly have hate. I am still just some lost soul trying desperately to make his way. The manner, in my mind, through which I achieved a relationship with God was by letting go of religion, in all its forms, and embracing the only message that qualifies as legitimate from a loving, benevolent God. All is well. God is not a reward for the worthy, but rather He is hope for the unworthy. We all, most certainly, are that. 

            While I stand in line at the grocery store check-out with my mask on and a few feet between myself and the shoppers behind and in front of me, I am bewildered by the scope of coronavirus. I often feel like I am in 1970s Russia, waiting in line for bread. It is surreal at times. If you stop just for a moment and take it all in, it is heavy and more than a little bit scary. Much of the Christianity I am currently exposed to would have me believe we are doomed. Covid-19 vaccines are the "mark of the beast" and therefore against God. This "plague" is a harbinger, a "broken seal" ushering in the Second Coming of Jesus and the destruction of sinners everywhere. 
            God (the one from the Bible) loves everyone the same but then culls anyone who doesn't do as they are told. We are created in His image then tossed to the frailty of simply being human. We are instructed that God holds no favourites as we form the Elect and reject the unsaved. Several churches who refuse to follow Covid-19 social protocols for safety have recently garnered attention in the news. Apparently, you will be safe in your churches because God holds you in esteem and will protect you.  Children of God die just as easily as any abomination or heathen would. I just cannot believe that any God would manifest the world in this way. Rewarding only those loyal to you while damning the rest of us makes me question the entire Abrahamic tradition. Eventually, I look down and realize I am standing in pudding. The flavour is unappealing and the texture quite sour. I guess you do get what you pay for. What one wishes to see, one will. 

Still, I am not a Christian. Then again, neither was Jesus.

Photo

http://www.thewichitafoundry.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/Bald-Man-Praying-Cropped-100x100.jpg

Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea

 "Man is fond of counting his troubles, but he does not count his joys.  If he counted them up as he ought to, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it." (Fyodor Dostoevsky, Russian writer)

             I ran onto the subway car as if chased by some monster. My brothers, just behind me, less energized at the thought of this ride. Although I had lived in Toronto my entire 10 years, I had never experienced the subway. I jumped on the seat and kicked my legs beneath me, they dangled and banged on the board near my feet. The glass and doors closed behind us and the cabin slowly started to move. I was thrilled. An alternate route may have been more direct, the Woodbine bus would have a shorter option, but I wanted this more than anything that summer. My world was full of superheroes and comic books, all centering on New York City. The kind of metro featured in the lives of Spiderman, the Fantastic Four, X-Men and other American icons was something I needed to see for myself. I begged for them to take me on the system, to take me downtown so I could see. They agreed that it would shut me up, so off we went. I am still surprised my mother let me go.

            Toronto was a different place in 1975.  It was safer and cleaner. Mom was right, it was okay for me to venture out with my brothers, one 13, the other 14. Children had greater freedom when I was growing up, things were much more innocent. The city was a playground to explore, not some fucked up maze of trying to get home alive. These were the days before Apple and Microsoft, before video games and computers. Kids were still kids at 10 or 11, and you had better make sure to get home when the street lights come on. In 1975, the CN Tower had not yet been completed, nor Skydome built, and you could still see the waters of Lake Ontario, not just condominiums rising together like some hive from hell. The Eaton Centre still had an Eatons and Yonge Street was still the destination of choice on a Saturday night. You could still buy candy for a penny and comic books were a quarter. The day went on forever and the night was a time of wonder. A heat wave was just another reason for swimming and fireflies were meant for catching. Time would go by so slowly and summer became an endless escape. All was well with the world.

            The Yonge Street subway line extension had just been completed and allowed pilgrims from the outskirts of Canada's largest city to directly venture into the heart of the Big Smoke. We had walked from home on this hot sun-filled day, to travel from Don Mills, across to Sheppard Ave, and then by subway to Union Station. Toronto was still expanding and you could feel the pangs of a flourishing urban sprawl. Walking down into the tunnels, I felt like the Batman, stalking the Joker or some vampire, so using the caverns of an underground world. Nothing could have invaded my pleasure. From Union Station, we grabbed an eastbound streetcar at Lakeshore Boulevard and got off when it crossed Woodbine Avenue, close to the Beaches. You could see the massive layering of concrete from quite a distance on the trolley, and the 5-story diving platforms and viewing stands rose to attention in the blistering glare of an August afternoon. The idea of UV warnings and smog alerts had yet to infect the consciousness of our summertime and the threat of lurking strangers was only a bad dream, lost to time. We had come so far to stand before this cement monolith, shaped with a brutal outward appearance. The first thing I thought was how much this human construction looked like something from Ape City, a popular destination for space travelers and a highlight on a tour of the Planet of the Apes. I couldn't wait to get inside. 

            Donald Dean (D.D.) Summerville-Woodbine Beach Pool was designed and built in the early 1960s. In 1963, then Mayor of Toronto Summerville suffered a fatal heart attack during a charity hockey event, only a short time after taking office. The pool was dedicated in his name and became an architectural landmark for the Beaches, a long-standing neighborhood developed on the east side of what had been Old Toronto. The shoreline is a single uninterrupted blanket of sand, with a wooden boardwalk running parallel, built in 1932. The pool sits close to the shore and the beach acts like a backdrop of sun and sky and water. The area known as "The Beaches" still stands as one of Toronto's more prestigious communities and plays host to many attractions throughout the year. One of the main attractions is the public swimming compound.

            The complex itself contains a 50-metre Olympic-sized lap pool and 25-metre training pool for less experienced swimmers. The diving pool area features both 5 and 10-metre diving platforms. Aged cement, barren and quite void, abounds. The trio of pools interlock in manmade stone, and each one becomes deeper with the strength of the swimmer. The Olympic diving boards looked quite alien to me as we waited in line. There were kids everywhere. The 2000 person capacity had already been reached, so we waited in the sunshine watching Lake Ontario and many people pass us by. I can imagine all the sun seekers as they walked about, hand in hand, basking in the glory of a good day and a pleasant place. I cannot, however, recall any faces from that day in the sun. I can hear the joy of children playing and smell the air so sweet with August. I can see gulls dancing in and out of the body of blue and boats on the horizon, too far to make out clearly. It was a perfect summer day.

            Once we got into the place, the fun really began. We changed in an outdoor area and took to the concrete surrounding the pools. I had been taking swimming lessons every summer since I was 5 years old, so the sheer size of the Olympic pool did nothing but beckon me even more. We played and splashed and relaxed for what seemed the entire afternoon. When my brothers told me that they were going to the diving pool, I had to have me some. I took the little test they do to confirm how well one can swim and passed with flying colors. We all headed over to face our destinies and challenge our fear.
            The bottom of the diving pool reached down into dark and the platform boards reached high into heaven. My brother Phillip had introduced me to the deep end one summer many years before, pushing me into an area uncharted even for my local pool. Since then, water held no power over me. I had conquered it once and could do so again. I was Aquaman, King of the Ocean, and this was but an ancient loch, deep but of no concern. Our bravado urged the three of us to abandon the shallow. Instead, we decided to test the deep.

            The water hit me hard and cold, and my swan dive produced a shock to the system. I dug deep into the water, reaching farther and farther with all my  might. The water kept getting colder and colder and I found no end in sight. I just could  not find the bottom. Quickly, not enough to panic, I flipped in the water like a dolphin and kicked hard toward the light. The air rushed into me, and for a moment I felt as if life was just beginning. It was all so sweet and funny and thrilling and I loved every single moment of it. I have never forgotten. 

            The journey home that day is not important, although it lingers like a cobweb with the rest of the things that once were. Just before we left for the way home, we all laid out on the hot slabs around the pool and bathed in the last moments of our getaway. I remember looking about me. I remember feeling the sun. I remember recognizing that this was a good day. This would be one of the last times that my brothers and I spent together in this manner. They were already teenagers and had little use for a fledgling pubescent. I can't recall another time since when it was like this. This day was no extraordinary outing, no monumental occurrence or event. It holds nothing, but what it was and what it remains. It was just an ordinary day, but we seized it.
            40 plus years later, and I can still hear the seagulls and still feel the warm breeze flowing off the lake. What a grand day! If only all my memories were this pure, this succinct. If only all the days of my life were this rewarding. Sometimes when I feel low and sad and I need something to pick me up, I picture myself standing, edging my voyage to the bottom of the sea. Sometimes I forget that these memories represent what childhood should be. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have had the childhood that I did. Sometimes, but not often. Most times, I realize that instances like these are what life is all about and, more often than not, what my life has been filled with.

             A few months ago I went exploring old landmarks from when I was a boy. Authoring your life may occasionally require a boost, a self-imposed doze of what used to be. I was on a fact finding mission. Toronto is my familiar, the city were I grew up,  so it was more a navigation than a chance to recapture my youth. With little choice, I parked at a distance from the Summerville pools and then I walked around for awhile. I even sat down and pondered my visions on the very same bench I sat on when I was 10 years old. Not much had changed, the structure looked the same. The area itself was busy, littered with travelers. Most people followed Covid-19 protocol for their for protection although social distancing did not appear to be of great concern. It was surreal, as flashes of the past mixed with discarded masks, vaccines and the reality of this modern world. The pool still sits there. Like with Covid, from below you cannot see the blue. It was comforting to be there, any observation that day I thought complete. I did not leave right away. I lingered there, holding my breath again, pushing through the depth of it reaching. I should have brought a towel. 

Photos

http://spacing.ca/toronto/2016/08/05/torontos-summerville-pool-slice-mediterranean/

https://www.flickr.com/photos/88017382@N00/8713561842

http://www.kimhughes.ca/uploads/2/1/1/8/21182816/130125.pdf

https://miturf.com/space/city-of-toronto/donald-d-summerville-olympic-pool-b

 

 

 

 

Ride, Beautiful

 

            We are the things we know. We are every book that we have ever read and every song that we have sung. We are our favourite television program and the movie we just saw on the weekend. All the people that we have met and each conversation we have had are part of our makeup. What you gather from these things becomes a portion of who you are. You are the smell of fall in the air and the snowflake falling softly to the ground. You are the sun you see and the stars that shine and the breaking dawn. You are what you eat and you are what you speak. You are the words that are spoken to you. You are your family and your friends, your mother and your father and your spouse. You are your enemy and your champion. You are the stranger you gave change to on the street and the child you tuck into bed at night. You are what you think and feel and reject. You are a collection, the sum of everything you have experienced. You are what you acknowledge and what you have learned. You are the totality of all things that have met you in this life. 

            It's no wonder people seem to be so screwed up. There appears to be more violence, apathy and disregard than I can ever remember. Perhaps the rise in population explains it. On some statistical level, there just seems to be more chaos. There are just far too many people in this world where we live. It is hard to find your way when you are constantly battling the masses for air. All the hate, all the anger, all the senseless selfish existing we do, they are part of us as well. We are a mixture, an ever-evolving, ever-growing mass of this and that. When we hurt, we are. When we love, we are. Every second, every moment, from the time you wake in the morning to the last flicker as you fade to rest, each contact, every dream makes up more of you. The hopeless, the priceless, the pretty and the sour, these are the things that prove we are alive.

            I have learned to pay attention to the things that cross my path on a daily basis. I am aware of where I am, who I meet each day and any interaction I may have with someone else. I am all the good and all the bad and all the ugly. Some may claim I am awake, or enlightened, or whatever, but the truth is I just don't want to miss a thing. I refuse to allow a moment to pass me by without at least trying to catch it. I am constantly watching and observing this life. This transformation from a once dull bulb into something slightly brighter came at quite a cost. I evolved because I adapted. The amalgam of all my experience turned me into something else, someone else. The milestones from our lives tend to build into higher walls. Each supporting the other until we feel that we are safe. We are the sum of our benchmarks, not to note them, but to live better because of them. To find beauty in the ugliness, peace in the chaos and God in all the hate is the only way I have learned to have some semblance of happiness. I am convinced, despite all evidence to the contrary, that life is beautiful. 

            I had always loved my Mother deeply, but I had never taken the chance to tell her in good time. It took her almost dying to open my eyes. Long before the breast cancer and that fatal heart attack, we almost lost her back in the mid 1980s. She herself talked about the shadowy Reaper who stood in the doorway of her ICU room. When she finally was able to return home, my notions of her began to change. I suppose that the idea of losing her was a catalyst for me to take notice. We spent hours on the phone talking, almost daily. We would sit and play cribbage on a hot summer afternoon. We laughed, we cried, then we laughed right from the start again.  Although we had always been close, a friendship formed. It was unique. It was special. It was the only way I could get past the idea of eventually losing her for good. I pulled her closer, I made an investment. I took the time to take her to Costco or made daytrips just to see her face. With every encounter over the last years leading up to her death, I catalogued my Mother. She now rests as a part of me. 

            It was important for me to have no regrets when it came to my Mom. The same instinct drives me still regarding my Father. Both their stories are significant to me. They will always be part of this wonderful universe and I was privileged to share some of their time here with them. I try to view the world around me in the same manner. I don't just see something, I look at it. This art of observation would not have been had I not known my Mother. It was through the fear of losing her that I discovered  the joy of seeing in the now. At the end of every day, I still think of her. Sometimes I use the city lights to look upon her face, framed for goodnight. Her challenges, her death taught me so much, but only because I was listening. One of the most important milestones of my life was realizing that I can see God the very same way. I suppose one might say that when one door flew open, all the windows did too!

            I have not failed to notice my sensitivities. I have moments of such bliss when I am frozen in place. Through years of trial and error, I have finally reached a plateau where I know that everything will be okay in the long run. I will be okay, whatever comes. Life used to be a lonely thing for me, an ache that never went away. These days, I am overflowing. It is everywhere. It is the moon, the dust and the spider, twirling and spinning in a cosmic display. We are all a part of this vast unknowable, also tumbling around but only by chance. When I stop myself and I focus, I can feel the world alive around me. My eyes have been opened. All the things that I had been looking for were right here with me all along. I started to pay attention to the people in my life, then I started to pay attention to my life. Like rapids, harsh and strong and flowing, one moved into another until the entire spectrum of it all found me. At dead centre, no matter how I didn't want to see, I discovered those things most Holy. I recognized that God is the underlying consciousness that binds all reality. I am not a Deist, but I have come to understand that God speaks to us through the things we know. It is not only through pages, or voices from up high. The words are mostly silent so you must train yourself to hear them. You must train yourself to listen.

            Every person on this planet, every rock, all the cosmos are but a collective, a forward moving mass of energy, matter and darkness. We are one, I suppose. This is why it is so important to experience as much as you can while you can. We need to stop and take the time. It is only how we love that really matters. Life is fleeting and I for one don't want to miss a thing. Every tear I cry, every moment of laughter is a tiny part of something greater than what we can know. Every person's story, their mere existence, makes them unique and special, no matter how their pages read. From a tiny fly on the window pane to the death of my Mother, all things ebb and flow into each other. Each moment of the pain, all of the splendor blend together at the heart of it all. Every moment, every second of existence cries out that there is more. There is more to find in moments like this. Being aware of the world around you is an open door to the universe. There is no limit to what you might uncover. If God speaks to us through the things we know, then He is part of the things we know. He is waiting to be discovered, to show you that you don't need permission to be happy. You are supposed to have love and to be free. It's okay to make mistakes. You are allowed to hurt, to think and to scream. It is okay to  have enemies and to hate on occasion. Stop and smell the roses or cry yourself to sleep, but there is no need for us to be downtrodden. This universe flows through us. Even God is within. There need be no fear, no cause; there is so much more to this world than what we know. Take it all in. You can take it fast or you can take it slow, but either way life is a ride, beautiful.

             I think the only thing that got me through the death of my Mother I had already set in place years before. I wasn't ready but I was prepared. I made an effort to be not only a good son but also a friend and confidant. I spent time with her. I made an investment. You could argue that her cancer scare the year before her death drove my commitment, but I had been applying myself for years to this pleasure. The last moment I spent with her still lingers in my mind. The memory of her lifeless form on that cold table continues to haunt me when I let it. She is a finite story only she can write and a mixing of sadness and joy at the thought of her. The words "I miss you" cannot convey the pain that I hold deep inside. I could not bear it any other way. I have to tell myself how lucky I was. I remind myself how much less this life would have been without her and how lovely she made my way. When I need her, when the emptiness comes for me, I can hold it and save it for another time. I remember. For a moment, we were here together.

             Between the coming 12 year anniversary of her death on April 29, 2022 and Covid-19, I find these days solemn and at the same time disturbing. I wonder what my Mom would have thought of this whole coronavirus pandemic. I just know she would not have worn a mask, for medical reasons. I believe social distancing would have been something she excelled at. I'm sure her quiet life that led to her death would feel the same for her. There would be little difference but for the fear. So I sit day after day, mask in hand just in case. I wish she was with me even though that is a selfish thing for me to want. I have to remember she was here and I was part of her life no matter its ending. In the end, if that's the best we can hope for then it's better than nothing. 

 

Photo

 http://www.coachingwithmelissa.com/blog/2015/9/22/fall-into-change-take-a-deep-breath-and-lets-start-our-journey-together

Waste Not

 

             I have been to California many times but I have only ventured into Hollywood on two occasions. The last time I wandered around Tinsel Town, I was primarily there to catch the film Beaches at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The rest was all commentary. My virgin appearance, my first encounter, found me wanting. My entire life, Hollywood was this escape, this beautiful and exotic getaway. The mythos and grandeur were part of my upbringing. Like everyone else on this planet, I used to dream of being a big movie star and living in Beverly Hills. You should have seen my face when I got off the Greyhound bus in downtown disappointment. At first, I thought all the garbage and strange people were some fluke because of the bus terminal. I was wrong. Everywhere I went there was more dread, more gloom and more debauchery. Hookers and bums were on every corner, in every alley. Homeless people filled the spaces between porn shops and fast food joints. It was rundown, it was dirty and I was, for the most part, very disconcerted. The place was nothing like I thought it would be. As I headed down Hollywood Blvd., I passed landmarks I had only imagined up until then. I spent an entire day exploring what I came to call “The Hollywood Hole.” I must admit that my experience made me hesitant to ever go back. I am sorry but stepping on a syringe at Hollywood and Vine sealed the deal for me. This was not my Hollywood. The next year found my return but only for a moment. I just had this movie I needed to see and I needed to see it there in LaLaland. I travelled the 3,832 kilometers for Bette and Barbra and the late Gary Marshall. After my initial visit, film was the only good part of the town left for me. I headed off to Big Sur and I have never returned. I think the defining moment, the moment of my complete rejection, came in a frightening way. As I walked past a few more landmarks, I spotted a young Latino gentleman sitting on the top edge of a concrete bench. His bandana revealed his inclination. The most disturbing part of the scene was the stream of blood flowing from the area of his right forehead across the temple. It puddled on the ground below him. We made eye contact as I passed. It sort of scared me. It made me realize how different this world was to the one I owned back in Canada. I suppose I had far too many expectations of the place. I was destined to be let down. I have never recovered from the lesson I learned. I had always imagined Hollywood to be a land of milk and honey. It was more like cheap whiskey and a blow job out back in the alley.

            We moved to Paris, Ontario and left the city life behind us. The town is relatively small and very, very quiet (except from time to time on a weekend). We live right next to the Fairgrounds and are often visited by the pounding of music from the concert stage or the roar of monster trucks and the occasional smash-up derby. My family loves a good Fair, regardless of its size and content. My Mother used to win baking contests at the Strathroy Fall Fair and my Dad and his entourage still travel about Ontario, hunting for a good country welcome. A year after our initial move, once again the Paris Fair opened on the Labour Day weekend. It occurred to my father and I that in all our years, no one had ever gone to Paris for this event. Come Saturday, the lot of us all paid to park and get inside the gates. For years, I had heard advertisements on radio and television pumping up the experience of the Paris Fair. There were many times that I entertained going, particularly when the musical lineup met my fan appeal. Canadian artists like Blue Rodeo, Michelle Wright and Leahy all attracted my attention but not enough to make me go. We all met at my place and took their van over so my Dad didn’t have to walk. The fee was quite reasonable. Once we got inside, it became clear rather quickly. We had been deceived. A few rooms scattered throughout one building held contestants and champions but there was something scarce about the space. Once outside, my Dad seemed frustrated with the lack of livestock and I duly noted his disapproval. The midway made us all feel older, a lack of children to play with the obvious cause. It all struck me as wasted time. I could be bored at home for free. All in all, it was still a good day. Any time I get to spend with my father makes it so. I look back and I remember the way things were that day. We were together, but for a moment, and I believe that is all that matters. Perhaps all those disappointments allowed for different memories. Without that silly Fairground to walk away from, I would not hold such images in my head and on my hard drive. I am there talking and laughing and living. It didn’t matter that there was little gratification. I just wish that Paris: The Fair had not been such a downer, such a misuse of time and energy and cash. It was a letdown for us all.

            Sand Hill was supposed to be beautiful and it was. Located between Port Burwell and Long Point, Ontario, Sand Hill is a testament to the power of nature. Rising some 450 feet along the north shore of Lake Erie, the dunes stand like a “mountain of sand.” The $15.00 we paid to get in seemed fair at the time. We parked and headed straight for the dunes. My sandals did not work well with the sand and I removed them. Yes, the sand was very, very hot. Regardless, we made it over the top and slid down towards the water. We had such grand expectations of Sand Hill. It is hard to find a beach that is not overcome with people on a hot summer day. We had this area all to ourselves. Very quickly, you could tell why. The lake trout was bloated and very much rotting in the surf. It floated into view like the slime and goo that came along with it. We became aware. There was a great deal of foam and garbage, scattered in spots along the coast. It collected in pockets, some large and some small. There was no way in hell I was going in it. The 18 inches of fish carcass kept creeping, ever closer and closer. We did not exit as we had entered. We took the long way back and avoided the oven-baked mound just to get away from such a disappointment. It was nice and shady as we had our lunch at one of the campground picnic tables. As we left, I knew I would never return to the place and I have not. It has been years since we attended the mess. For me, it stands as an example of the damage mankind has done to the planet. There are very few beaches I can now swim in. My skin is hyper-sensitive and has only gotten worse as I have aged. People forget, just because the level of E. coli is within a safe parameter does not mean there isn’t shit everywhere.

            They lied to me. It was boldfaced as far as I am concerned. If I gave my life to Jesus, all would be well. I would be filled with the Spirit and my troubles would melt away with “the Glory of the Lord.” They forgot to tell me that if things were not okay, if I was not possessed, then I was doing something wrong. God chastises the unsaved (Mark 16:16).  I was 17 years old then. I was very bipolar and very untreated. I would cling to anything that made me feel better about the world around me and myself. I wanted to believe. I wanted to fit in. In all honesty, I joined the Pentecostal Church of Strathroy while stalking a high school acquaintance. I was soon in the mix of it and I really thought I had found a new direction. I had always been Christian and my parents had just joined the Pentecostal Church themselves. I tried to take it all in. The promises of salvation seemed more assured within this community. There seemed to be this mass appeal. I went in with great expectations. I had always had some form of relationship with the Christ. Most times, I viewed him as my imaginary friend. Around 200 people were crammed into the small sanctuary. Just before the lecture, a rock band played music I actually enjoyed. Years later and Christian music is one of the main staples in my symphonic diet. Scripture after scripture after scripture and the sermon was complete. He cried out and hoarded us to the front of the room. For the very first time (and not the last), I experienced an altar call. I walked up to the stage with the rest of the cattle and I stood, ready to accept the Lord and all his blessings. They fed us bullshit and we dropped like flies. Every time the pastor touched a believer’s forehead, they would fall away, gone limp in some testament to the presence of the Holy Spirit. I was thrilled at the idea. As I approached my pseudo-destiny, I readied myself for the indwelling. He touched my forehead and uttered, “Be filled by the power of Jesus.” For a second, I thought he was joking. I got nothing. Instinctively, it was important that my depravity remain hidden so I fell without the aid of anything Holy. I floated to the floor, simply copying what those before me had done. They helped me up and I walked back to my seat. I felt abandoned, right then and there. This moment still haunts me. I realized God didn’t want me and I was on my own. I still feel that way. While this scar still stings, most scars mean you have already healed. My days as a Christian are over but the longing remains, even after all these years. I have tried to re-examine my position, to see if anything has changed regarding my salvation. I am disappointed, yet again,.

The Covid-19 pandemic has brought with it much disappointment, primarily in people. From the actual issues relating to health to the social implications those issues have manifested, the world has changed with little to show for it. It’s not the masks, or social distancing that bring a sense of defeat. It’s not even all the death and destruction, the constant clang of coronavirus in the ear of anyone over 75 years of age. It is the lingering fools who believe there is no real issue that merits dismay. There are still those who hold that there is no pandemic and their conspiratorial fears are somehow legit. They die just as easily. You don’t have to be American and/or a Trump supporter to be blatantly ignorant. It is the countless souls who disregard themselves and others that inspire disappointment in the human race. Generally speaking, when out and about, I have found much to appreciate and much for concern. On my essential journeys, I have witnessed the very best in people and the very worst in people. No surprise, it is the unthinking narcissists that get on my last nerve. Rushing someone who is not wearing a mask when you are not wearing a mask should be a crime whether the government wants to establish the restriction or not. Self-serving, nasty monsters seem to lurk almost everywhere these days. Yes, some things are better but much appears to be worse. I'm just getting ready for the fourth wave and the fifth wave (you get what I mean). Most people seem to recognize the severity of this epidemic and the sacrifices we all need to make in order to be safe. Others, they strike me as a constant disappointment, fools who may well end up exactly were the rest of us would rather not be.. 

             You get a lot of pretty days. You get a lot of ugly days as well. Life gives and it takes and it all seems futile in the end. It doesn’t really matter. I guess you can’t have expectations if you don’t want disappointments. Somehow, no matter what you do, things don’t work out as we pray that they will. We can try to see the good in things but that good always comes with the condition of random injustice. Nothing goes as planned. There is always a balloon to deflate, a seam to burst. This is the price one pays for hoping and wishing and dreaming. Hope is for fools, wishing for children and dreaming is nothing but avoiding the truth. In most cases, you rarely receive what you actually asked for or saw promise in. You do not always get what you pay for. At the end of the day, it is what one does with circumstance that matters the most. A disappointment might be a blessing in disguise. Granted, this is hard to see considering the midst of it. Life is hard. We make it harder just by expecting that it will be easy. We precondition ourselves for failure. Nothing goes our way. It’s better to the seize the moment than anticipate something that will never be. What a waste of time.    

 

 

 

Photo

 

http://www.garyhallcoaching.com/uncategorized/even-a-broken-clock-is-right-twice-a-day/

 

 

 

 

Sources

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beaches_(film)

https://www.ontariossouthwest.com/listing/sand-hill-park/1777/

http://my.kwic.com/~pagodavista/sandhills.htm

Cupcakes

   

            I have always been a writer. From the earliest days of scribbling down stories in crayon, to a career of publication in various platforms as an adult, I have always found myself attracted to the written word. After years of hibernation, I started blogging in response to grief. On May 28, 2010, I began a new journey. Rather than a continued response, I entered a new phase. Blogging was more of a recreational surprise than anything that I may have used for professional means. At first, I lacked the experience to fully understand the process of blogging, particularly on a long-term basis. It was more of a silent entry than a boastful delivery. The first outpourings were simple, simple and consciously limited. "Baby steps" was something my journalism professors held in high regard. "Keep it simple, stupid" was engrained in my psyche along with the idea of "When in doubt, don't."

            Sitting down to create out of nothing was not a difficult task. The journey was more revelation than study. When the idea of penning a book became an option, evolving out of my work seemed more dictational task than an easy expression of my truth. With more than 10 years of blogging behind me, the direction I take now seems set. The problem remains. More than 1, 000 blogs leaves little room for chronology. Taking something I once posted and turning it into an appropriate presentation seems strained to me at times. Picking what one will include in any book is the very challenge before me. So I take each blog and than I dissect it. On occasion, as I go along, I will post that dissection. I find it important to continue the blogging traditions I have maintained over the last decade or so. At this point, I need to discover how to separate the two.   

Lemon Cupcakes with Icing Sugar Sprinkles

May 28, 2010

            If there is one thing my parents gave to me besides unconditional love, it is my love of music. My earliest memories are of sitting with my father, in our basement, listening to old LPs. I can hear my Mom singing along to John Denver, on the stereo, as she baked Lemon Cupcakes with Icing Sugar Sprinkles. My entire life has been one big symphony, a mosaic of this style and that genre. I was raised on Country, Gospel, Standards and Showtunes. From Dean Martin and the Mamas and the Papas; from the Sound of Music and Evie Karlsson, there is little I don't, at least, appreciate. I am a classical music junkie. I have an affinity for modern Christian pop. Although I am not a fan of many contemporary forms of music, I do like some of it. I discover new music around every corner.

            I cannot recall any part of my life without a soundtrack. The days behind me now are layered. They rise and they fall, an Arpeggio of sorts. With the death of my Mother, the influence of her musical tastes has become like a neoclassical canon. She introduced me to Vivaldi and Brahms and she was instrumental when it comes my appreciation of the religious/gospel/ Christian genres. There was a time when I tried to pay her back. For years, each Christmas I created a playlist on CD for her to listen to through the holidays. When she developed breast cancer in 2008, which she survived, I began to create compellation CDs for her to listen too. Spiritual songs seemed to grant her hope, it gave her fortitude and eased some of the fear and pain she battled throughout her last days. It is these compilations which inspired me to post an Anthology of said songs, a tapestry one may say, of the words and melodies which engrained themselves so deeply into my being throughout all of the years I have known my parents. Rather quickly, the idea itself morphed. I began to use lyrics as part of the blog rather than most of the blog. I still use them just the same, in almost every one. Most of them will have to go once condensed for general publication. 

            In a sense, the music of my life has been more of a evolution than mere journey. What appeals to me is engrained in me. I am, after all, my Mother and my Father. I think that was the lesson I took from the beginning of my blogging adventure. It seems that the simplest things hold the most meaning. Music and resulting Praise and Jubilation are things we all tend to take for granted. It can be a challenge to focus on what is really important. Things like music are essential to survival, at least for me. When I stop and look back on my time with my family, I am drawn to the lyrics and the orchestration. My mind starts to sing along. Suddenly, once again, I see cupcakes. 

Photo

https://lifeatcloverhill.com/2011/01/lemon-filled-cupcakes.html