Blue

        

            The moment I became aware, I knew that I was someplace else. The abundance of clouds all around me was the dead giveaway. Everything looked so clean. Having a stroke on the streets of Toronto was a disorderly experience, from what I can remember. A few folk managed to step on me. I know I landed in a pool of something far beyond the definition of puddle. Crowds at any Pride parade can be messy to say the least. It was clear that I had  passed. This new manifestation was so white and oh so fluffy. For as far as the eye could see, it was all I could see. I felt awkward, conditioned that this state after death was exclusive and most certainly not for someone considered to have a low moral standing. I had always believed the propaganda. I never felt welcome. I stood all alone, wrapped in the fog, tossed into the midst of it. I kept asking myself what the hell was going on. 

            I was not surprised that there was no welcome wagon, at least not for me. St. Peter was no where to be found. There were no embracing hands or greetings from my loved ones. Where were all the lost pets I was told would be waiting for me? There wasn't even a tunnel to go down. I could not find anything, neither up nor down. I was never visited by someone I might know. High into this heaven there were even more clouds, they hung like from a ceiling. Each ceiling then met more cloud and then even more cloud. As above, so below, I thought. 

            I began to investigate. I could walk on them and I could sit on them. They were nothing but everything all at once. The only color, the only trace of my life was the gay pride flag plastered on my chest. I had worn the thing as I strolled into the crowds looming at the annual Toronto Gay Pride parade. It was then that I stroked out and left my being. Now there were clouds all around me but they seemed to be barely there. Somehow I stood firm and safe on a mat of puffy white. I was lost and soon realized that I had no idea what to do. I wasn't sure if my t-shirt barred the way. I tried to remove it several times but it just wouldn't budge. I had no idea where to go. Which way is the right way when all ways are exactly the same?

            I half expected the Pearly Gates to pop up out of nowhere, but they didn't. I waited and waited for a guide or an angel or even a direction sign to tell me where I was supposed to travel. Eventually, although I had no physical need, I sat down on a patch of heavy cirriform clouds and I began to ponder my fate. If this was heaven, was I the only one that was ever allowed in? Where was Jesus? What about Matthew Shepperd? I even looked around for Adolf Hitler but I guess he hadn't arrived yet. He was really the only person I expected to see in this place. I just assumed this was something other than heaven. I had been instructed, my entire life, to expect hell. I never assumed it would have such a moderate temperature and cumulus décor. 

            It gets boring sitting on the side of a cloud with nothing to do but think. I asked myself so many questions, I ruminated with much speculation, but there was nothing but marshmallow after marshmallow staring me in the face. I concluded that my current location looked like the Stay Puff  man had dropped a few pounds all over the place. As I waited, my thinking process corrupted itself. All the while, something started to happen. Each color of my shirt glowed with a slight luminance. I could see a reflection on the clouds right before me. I wasn't sure what it meant but I was sure that the gay pride flag had no place in heaven. The two of us had much in common. 

            It was stark and grim to linger. I even wondered if I was in Limbo or Abraham's bosom. I was uncomfortable with the idea. To be forced to spend eternity surrounded by fluff was almost as bad as having to watch an episode of The Bachelor. As what I thought was time passed, I realized how screwed I really was. Fortunately, certain more mammalian traits had been left behind. I didn't need to go to the bathroom. I tried to sleep several times, but I guessed that this was something I had also discarded. I was never hungry or thirsty even though I really could have used a drink. I'm unsure whether my ability to procreate had been affected as I decided not to look. All the primal, all the tactile experiences of being human had become irrelevant. There were no mirrors to confirm it, but I could tell I even looked different. I hadn't had that much hair on my head since public school. The major scar on my abdomen had just disappeared. As I pointed out, I neglected to examine my centre square, but I suddenly felt au naturel. Slowly, I could feel myself lightening. Color glowed from my chest and any heaviness I experienced began to fade away. 

            My life seeped like a slow leak would. It was as if the energy within me was released in tiny breaths. The longer I sat, the more I flashed back to my life on earth. It was like reading from a book that flipped page after page in my noggin. My life passed before my eyes and I never once had to take a pee break. It's strange the things you remember when memory is all you have left. You remember both the good and the bad, the happy and the sad. You also see things clearly, without the emotional attachments one had as a human being. It started as some vision from when I was a boy and followed me through every mistake and every error. My visual modality revealed all the joy and all the bliss that I have known as a man, blended together like the flag on my chest. Every person I ever knew, every person I engaged with, danced before me as if by rolodex. I saw my shame and the reasons that I constantly doubted (like any one would).

            One would imagine that rehashing every mistake made, every error in judgment, would bring great condemnation. I had to stop myself from reeling only to notice it wasn't that bad. I saw such awful, despicable things that I did but I also saw the wonderful, lovely moments that I knew. I saw my decadence and my so-called sins of the flesh. I heard all the laughter, all the tears. It became clear just how I took things for granted in my mortal form. I saw the pain, the confusion, the believing I was not good enough in God's eyes. I remembered telling myself that I was somehow beyond forgiveness. Being gay was never something I had been proud of. I was brainwashed by my Christian sensibilities. The gay community, Pride, gave me something religion never could. A sense of home and place where I could be myself regardless of who that was. My shirt was more than some flag, it was my flag. 

            I always thought of dying as a trip into the wild blue yonder. There was no blue here, not a speckle of color, beyond my markings. I considered that hell may be painted over in oyster or chalk. The sky had never been and the ground below was gone, if it was ever there at all. I was left all alone in an endless weave of only me and any tufts of rain yet to be. The isolation, the desperation all painted over any sense of joy that came with me. At one point, everything started to twist in my head. The flashes started to speed up, each zipping past my mind's eye like a Madonna video. I could find no ray of light. I became sad at all I had left behind. I was more concerned that there seemed nothing else ahead. I stood frozen as the pictures moved faster and faster right in front of my face. These were not only the grand moments, in fact they were things not even worth the mention on an ordinary day. Every mundane experience raced together to fill in all the spaces. The time I spent sleeping, or going to the bathroom, or watching television, were strung together without a musical bed. At one point, I had seen more than enough and I tried to turn it off. I couldn't turn it off, it just went on and on in a constant motion. When it finally did cease to play, I was met with a sense of depletion. Every part of me had been exposed and for a moment this confirmed I was in hell.

            At times it was like dancing on the truth.  At times it was hollow, depressing and uncomfortable. I wasn't sure how much time the long journey had taken but it didn't seem to matter in this relative state of being. I wasn't even sure that time applied in this place. Somehow, I still was despite having been cast down to misery in my own mind. All I know is that I saw it all. Everything was clear and concise. In a way, it became more like watching one very long movie than flipping through pages in a book. It was like a puzzle coming together, each piece seemed to find its proper place. The best part was there were no commercial breaks. The worst part was there were no commercial breaks. I began to understand the path I had followed and why I headed that way. Now, I stood before myself. I was wicked and careful and kind. I had been cursed and blessed and I now just was. Somehow, someway, I still existed. Nothing, it would seem, could steal that away from me. 

            I wasn't picking my nose, I swear it. There was little reason to do anything but sit and hope that  my replay would end soon. Somehow, I managed, I could take it. Almost everything I had tossed at me bounced off into some wild blue yonder. I heard echoes from the past that reminded me. Every theology instructor, every scientist, assured me that there was nothing to fear about death. I remembered reading somewhere that there is a set amount of energy in the universe and that energy merely changes from one form into another. I reminded myself that the First Law of Thermodynamics affirms that energy is always conserved and it cannot be created nor can it be destroyed. I wondered to myself if this was true considering my situation and all these freaking clouds. 

            I am not sure what eternity feels like but I have a good idea. The process to re-examine my life seemed to take longer than my actual life did. Most of it was rather boring, a feat I always failed to achieve during my humanity. The longer I sat waiting, the more benign I began to feel. My shell hung on me, I experienced it, it was heavy and harsh. I was overcome with such grand emotions. It was bittersweet to have to say goodbye. There had been no voices to usher me forward but I swear I now could hear them. From the everlasting white came a sudden sense of pulling, a complete draining of every thing I ever was or should have been. Ironically, for the first time in my existence, I was whole. Out of nowhere, my flag began to unfurl.  

            Softly the colors appeared to leave me, each one its own stream, floating, dancing, playing in the air. They hovered for a moment or two then all those colors started playing together. Red flowed into orange then to yellow and green. The blue and the violet also joined in the chorus. They all then turned on me. They whipped around my frame, caressing me, touching me and calling me. I looked down and my feet began to melt into a rainbow. My t-shirt fed the gossamer which began to circle my calves and then my knees. I did not collapse under my weight as there was little weight left of me. My waist, my hands then my chest morphed into a tie-dye version of heavenly bliss. Each stretched out and blended with the others. I became one with the swirl until I swirled about myself. It was then that I started to disappear. 

           There was nothing left of my human remains, nothing but the soul that speaks to you now. Everything just washed away. In a  last effort, I had to try to reach out and try to help you understand. My last thoughts are of you. I pray that somehow this reaches you. The last thing I can tell you, the very last thing I have to share, is not from a tale of woe ending badly. Underneath that blanket of snow, there was promise and beauty in all I had seen. In the end, all lives matter regardless of the flag you bear. This is the voice I heard and now must follow. I am floating here, drifting on by. There is nothing but cloud then, on the other side, there is only blue. 

Photo

https://www.flickr.com/photos/36338508@N00/66640633/

Old Cape Cod

 

            In early summer of 1990, I travelled with my partner and a few close friends throughout New England. I had been there previously with my family in late summer 1976. Just after the American Bi-Centennial, my parents, along with me and my four siblings, spent our vacation in New Brunswick, Canada. The hills of Rexton were our home for a few glorious weeks of camped out real country. As a kid from Toronto, I was surprised  how well I took to the place and to the people. We all made friendships that lasted as long as the car ride home. Having crossed Ontario and Quebec on route, my folks decided to take the surprisingly shorter way home through New England, New York and eventually Canada. Our adventure began when we crossed over the Canadian/American border and into Maine. The mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont acted like guide posts as we journeyed back towards Ontario. New York State felt like a welcome mat, a harbinger of almost being there. Unfortunately, this trip homeward did not allow for much sightseeing outside of the van by which we travelled. We did not stop in many places instead each monument, each grand sight skipped by with an urgent need to just get the hell home. My trip in 1990, however, allowed me the more tactile experience of actually getting out and absorbing my environment in person rather than quicksilver. . 

            Of all the places I visited that summer of 1990, the most memorable, for me, was Cape Cod. While my friends fixated on spending time in Provincetown, I only wanted to see the famous sand dunes which had inspired countless artists and poets. Provincetown, located at the northern peak of the Cape Cod peninsula, maintains status as a much favoured vacation destination for the LGBTQ community. While curious to see such a spectacle, the natural beauty of the easternmost portion of the state of Massachusetts held my true interest. The only spectacle I planned on indulging in was the moonlight on Cape Cod Bay and the beaches along its seashore.

            The Cape Cod National Seashore is comprised of 43,604 acres, 4,000 of which make up the majority of the village known as Provincetown, which sits at the very tip of the Cape. It is this area, part of the Province Lands Reserve, where you find the most dramatic and plentiful dunes. Cape Cod, like other parts of Massachusetts, is heavily affected by wind erosion and the formation or deformation of sand dunes. These natural phenomena have long acted as an inspiration, a wondrous muse. Every year, travelers come from all over the world to taste of the Cape's natural beauty and share in the history, and culture, of this 40-mile scope of protected land. Come summer, artisans, such as painters and ornithologists, find themselves hunting for the perfect scene through which to apply their craft. 

            Sand areas, on the appendage of Cape Cod, make up 6,000 acres in magnitude. Erosion and the natural shifting of dunes, by elemental forces, have always been a serious issue for local citizens. The conservation of Cape Cod itself is at stake. Dating back to the 1920s-30s, the matter found voice among locals and the Cape Cod Conservation District was established in 1947 to address the "concerns of soil, water and other resources." Erosion became such a concern that Massachusetts pioneered as "the first American state to institute control methods for wind erosion and the stabilization of sand dunes." The raw, potent gales, which whip across the bodies of water that surround the Cape, carry sands into the harbour, constantly reshaping dune after dune, shifting the loose flow. The ocean, along the shoreline, is literally washing the beaches away.

            These enormous sand deposits were left behind when Ice Age glaciers receded approximately 30,000 years ago. The Cape, an exposed location, is a sandy peninsula which formed during this period. The land mass juts into the Atlantic Ocean like a "crooked arm." It is of primary interest to geologists "because it was formed, by glaciers, very recently in terms of geologic time and because of the ever changing shore as the Cape adjusts to the rising sea." Bartholomew Gosnold, an English explorer, gave Cape Cod its name in 1602 and the greater scenery, the geographic land itself has changed little since then. Villages are separated by large areas of forest, marsh, beach and dune. Cape Cod is one of the more popular "vacation areas for the people living in the thickly settled north-eastern [United] States." The unspoiled natural beauty only enhances the almost isolated appeal of the area. Each year, the sands of Cape Cod are transported and re-deposited by water and wind. These natural factors, the remaining glacial deposits, and the landforms created by the rise in sea level, make up the modern landscape of this rather dusty destination.

            The most beautiful dune beach is located on Race Point, part of Provincetown. Huge monoliths of sand loom over each other, like giant ripples touching, then parting, as if waves made of dust. If you close your eyes and ears to the ocean, for a moment you can find yourself lost in the Sahara Desert in Africa or the Mojave Desert in southeastern California. At the end of Route 6, the dunes surrounding Pilgrim Lake are close enough to touch from your car, close enough that they spill over onto the highway. The largest dunes can be found at Cahoon Hollow Beach and Marconi Beach in Wellfleet, south of Provincetown. On the outer side of the peninsula, and not as accessible as other areas, these tremendous and staggeringly large deposits dwarf the most formidable of men. The more interesting parabolic dunes are found in Provincetown and Truro. Parabolic dunes are generally "horseshoe-shaped, with a concave windward slope and a convex leeward slope." You can actually see where the wind has been. In the off season, the beaches thrive with a different kind of life. Come the winter winds, the dunes shift and move like living earth. The air is filled with particles of frozen dust, and fine debris, and mist. It is thick and malleable, almost pliable or elastic. They say the sand stings in its caress against the skin, like needles. In constant flux, the dunes of Cape Cod toss and turn, each one ever reshaping their features of height, girth and location. They hold a special place for returning artists, determined to rediscover the pleasure of days gone by. Every year holds something new for them, as the world they witnessed the season before has drifted into something changed but no less stunning.

 
"If you're fond of sand dunes and salty air
Quaint little villages, here and there
You're sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod
If you like the taste of a lobster stew
Served by a window with an ocean view,
You're sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod
Winding roads that seem to beckon you
Miles of green beneath the skies of blue
Church bells chiming on a Sunday morn,
Remind you of the town where you were born
If you spend an evening, you'll want to stay
Watching the moonlight on Cape Cod Bay
You're sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod"
(Old Cape Cod, Patti Page 1957)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HT2ao0rcxoA&list=RDHT2ao0rcxoA&start_radio=1

            July 2^nd, 1990 was not as warm as my partner and I would have liked it to be. The extreme heat we experienced in Boston the week before seemed more appropriate for the Province Lands and the dunes which called out for our attention. With a long journey to Cooperstown, New York set for the next day, we declined the invitation from our travelling companions to later paint the town, and instead we headed down towards the beach. We had both spotted tiny little shacks sporadically placed among the dunes on the outer eastern edge of Provincetown and were intent on investigation. It had been difficult to get down to the water during our stay. My partner had never learned to swim properly, so even the shallow waves that crashed about shore seemed a little too much for his liking. With the promise of a wet-free day, we set out to explore.   

            The Dune Shacks of the Province Lands are scattered throughout this State Reservation. Varying in size and shape, 17 have been designated historic Dune Shacks within the boundaries of the Cape Cod National Seashore. Encompassing Provincetown, the Lands include the outer beaches and the inner forests and marshland. The Province Lands comprise the entire tip of Cape Cod. Historians believe that the shack's original purpose may have been as part of the "survival huts" that were built for sailors who found themselves shipwrecked along deserted parts of the coastline. From the first recorded wreck in 1626, so many ships have been destroyed on the hidden sandbars off the coast that this area of seashore is known as an "ocean graveyard." With more than 1,000 wrecks having occurred along this area, manned Life Saving Stations were established in the shacks. In the early 1900s, the dune shacks may have been used for families visiting nautical working men. Many of these dune shacks were built near the Peaked Hill Bars Life Saving Station. The shacks still in existence today were "built in the 1920's and 1940’s when Provincetown was becoming not only a vacation place, but also an art colony."
            The huts stand alone, quaint little wooden places that rent out a week at a time or for the season. Many have no heat, no running water, not even a toilet. Any modern convenience you must bring yourself. In modern times, the dune shacks act as a summer getaway for naturalists and as a retreat for artists. On almost any given day, the dunes around the Peak Hill Station are riddled with easels, garden hats and lawn chairs. Artisans striving to capture the beauty of this place, mix with beachcombers and seagulls, all watching the waves blow in and the shifting sands blow about.

"Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living. Out of our over-confidence, fear; out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope. And out of hope, progress." (Bruce Barton, Canadian playwright)

             Just past Peaked Hill, we laid out our blanket and dropped onto the sand. The sun was bright, but not as intense as one would imagine it could be at the beginning of July on the Cape. The sea air whistled a slight chill, so we decided to recreate just past a dainty little dune shack, the mounds about us useful for blocking the wind. We had looked for a spot in between a few of the larger dunes, hoping to lounge on the side of a sandy hill. Without proper footwear, we were forced to walk barefoot on this carpet and realized quickly that the temperature off the air has little to do with the sun baking the ground and eventually your sole. 

            The shack was not much to look at. It sat all alone at the base of a long sloping dune, looking out over the waters about 1000 feet away. It was no bigger than a small living room, with a small side door, a few tiny provincial windows and a steam pipe topping a tin roof, which sat patched and rusting. Out back, a porch swing found residence on a wooden platform. Out front, an easel and wooden chair, facing away from the ocean, revealed the proclivity of their owner for sand dunes. An old Coca Cola tin held many brushes, the tips of each floating in an unknown solution. A palette, well used, sat protected by the chair, undisturbed by the sun and the wind and the strangers now pondering its history and the location of its owner. It had sand all about it. You could smell the Atlantic and almost taste the salty air. The roar of the crashing waves mixed with the sound of children laughing and seagulls very much annoying. The sand felt like a waterbed, moving beneath our blanket, so we both settled in easily, intent on an afternoon of good food, a few books to read and the best of company. I look back on these days with a mixture of relish and sorrow, both mingling with the waves and the sands like some type of meant to be. It is moments like this that have made my life worth living. I lit a cigarette, having to shield it from the sea breeze. Almost in sync with my lighter, the door to that old shack swung open, then slammed closed with the wind. Out from that noise came a slender woman, well aged by time and well tanned by the season. I wasn't sure if smoking was allowed on the beach, so I went to put out my cancer stick when she yelled, "Hey, you!!"

            To our surprise, this approaching figure was not intent on chastising anyone. Instead, she approached gently, bid us a "good afternoon" and politely requested a spare smoke. As if we were old friends, she informed us that she had yet to get the chance to head into town again for more supplies. The moment I gave her one from my pack, she asked to buy a few more from me, if I had them to spare. As I produced them, she sharply asked, "Are you both Canadians?" We had looked at her strangely enough, so she noted my brand of cigarette as the giveaway. She then smiled as if to welcome us to her beach.  Her name was Gwen, a self-proclaimed painter, who once taught drama at a high school in Portland, Maine. At 71, she spent her summers between the Cape and a cottage outside Portland. She was petite, but you could tell her strength from the way she carried herself. She was still rather pretty, under years of wear and tear. She was so friendly that we invited her to join us for some food on our blanket. For the longest time we talked about Ontario and Maine and other places. 
            Eventually, we wandered over for a quick tour of her "home away from home." We soon realized the space inside was even smaller than it appeared from an outward view. A small cot lay covered in the far corner with bags and luggage underneath. A counter made of old barn wood carried the meager belongings that seemed alien to this antique-like place. An old basin sat beside a jug of water, a few feet away from a bucket whose purpose I could only imagine. The walls were heavy with canvas and frames. Each painting captured a different view of the beach and a unique perspective of individual dunes. No matter where you looked, not one was the same.
            With the tour complete, she sat straight down on her wooden chair, facing the sea of sand and picked up a paintbrush. We stood like schoolgirls, smoking cigarettes and hanging on her every word. She talked about her life, and all the pain that comes with living. She talked about her joy, the husband she had for 46 years, who passed away in 1987 from cancer. She shared her anguish incurred when her only child, a daughter of 15 years old, drowned in a lagoon near the place she owns in Portland. She talked about painting and how it freed her from a life of grief and sadness. She revealed that the Cape was her favourite place, as the dunes are always shifting, changing with the rhythm of the each season. "They are life," she said, stroking the canvas with brown and red. "Because things are as they are," she paused, "things never stay the way they are." She talked about the dunes, as a metaphor for the life we all live. She told us that each year, upon her return, the sands and the wind remind her that everything changes and that is how it will always be. Apparently, there is always something new to discover, even if you have been that way before. We left her painting, watching the sands go by.

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson, American essayist)

            I am not sure if Gwen outlived my partner but she would be more than 100 years old if she still lives. When the wind is right and the sand is too hot, I go back to that day on the Cape. I hope that she is somehow aware that I think of her and the revelation she brought to my philosophies. Life is strange, how it lifts and molds each one of us as if we are victims, yet we conquer the storm and the sea just the same. 

It is a human condition to not only endure change, but to cause it as well.

            Sand is the very lifeblood of Cape Cod. The very forces, such as ocean tides and erosion, which steal the sands, also renew the sands in the very same way. Without this change, sand would blow in circles on the highway that we travel down. Whether for good or bad, such change brings new experiences to explore. I guess, in a way, the dunes of Old Cape Cod are very much like our living. The constant flux of our humanity shifts in the ebb and flow, like windblown dunes. Unless we transform, we too may be dust in the wind.

View the Cape @

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rM2Xa4RUBCk&feature=related
 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5eW-B0SIOq8&feature=relmfu
 
 

 Photo

 https://www.redbubble.com/i/art-print/Entering-CAPE-COD-Commonwealth-of-Massachusetts-Road-Sign-by-NewNomads/23086700.1G4ZT 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Brooklyn_Museum_-_Sand_Dunes,_Cape_Cod_-_Dodge_MacKnight_-_overall.jpg 

https://remaininginprovincetown.com/2013/04/12/provincetown-poet-of-the-dunes-early-cape-cod-publisher/

https://northwatergallery.com/artist-item.php?itemId=6113495&title=Dune+Shack&artistId=196761&artist=Craig+Mooney&fromCart=1

https://mybarnwoodframes.com/vintage-latitude-cape-cod-sign/

Sources

http://pubs.usgs.gov/gip/capecod/index.html

http://people.brandeis.edu/~dkew/David/Kucinski-dunes-1943.pdf

http://gonewengland.about.com/cs/capecodsights/l/aa082301a.htm

http://capecodcd.org/index_files/home.htm

http://www.capecodonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?category=SPECIAL36

http://www.onearth.org/blog/an-elemental-life

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Provincetown,_Massachusetts

http://www.alcwin.org/Dictionary_Of_Geology_Description-362-P.htm

http://bytheseaphotos.com/the-dune-shacks-in-the-province-lands/

http://www.nps.gov/caco/historyculture/shipwrecks.htm

The Song of the Bird

 

             At the time, I really just wanted to be dead. I sat down with that thought in mind and I opened the book I was about to discover. As if by magic, in less than two hours my entire way of thinking shifted. I had followed the instructions, set the course and consumed the thing. It was like eating awareness. In spite of easy access to the Bible, I had never been so taken with something bound to spirituality rather than Christianity. Every page was a like a flowing river, it carried me far and away.    Sometimes a book or literary piece can change your ideas. Someone else's estimations can help reshape your reality and move you into a new direction. The gazebo was shady and slightly cool despite the 90 degree day. I sat for the longest time, uncomfortable with my new enlightenment. 

"Spirituality means waking up. Most people, even though they don't know it, are asleep. They're born asleep, they live asleep, they marry in their sleep, they breed children in their sleep, they die in their sleep without ever waking up. They never understand the loveliness and the beauty of this thing that we call human existence. You know - all mystics - Catholic, Christian, non-Christian, no matter what their theology, no matter what their religion - are unanimous on one thing: that all is well, all is well. Though everything is a mess, all is well. Strange paradox, to be sure. But, tragically, most people never get to see that all is well because they are asleep. They are having a nightmare."
(Approaching God: How to Pray, Steve Brown 1995)
 

            My then minster recommended the book 'The Song of the Bird,' during one of our grief counselling sessions. About six months after my partner died, I was still deeply depressed and stricken with sorrow. Reverend Derek Shelley allowed me to borrow the book rather than referring me to the closest bookstore to find one on  my own. Long before the internet and Amazon, book exchange was a convenient and frugal approach to information gathering. Devoutly confused, I borrowed the book but then I struggled with the idea of reading something "non-traditional."  I was still scared of the scrutiny I felt from God. I didn't want to screw up any more than I already had. Exposing yourself to alternate theologies was something the Church frowned upon. Expanding one's mind in the Gospels and scripture was one thing but anything beyond that was viewed as nothing but false and evil. New ideas were never even considered. If it didn't come from Jesus it had no merit whatsoever. 

            Occasionally, someone else will affect us through their expression rather than just their person. It is their art, their exertion which can help shape us. While this construction may come from a deep and personal place, it becomes irrelevant once separated from the whole. Sometimes we take notice. We can walk past a person every day, thinking nothing of their entire makeup, but once they hold a "sign" up we take notice, if even for a moment. It is not the painter which inspires, rather, the painting. It is not the sculptor who turns our head, but their sculpture. Even a song may change us deeply while the singer heads home for a brandy and little thought given. More often than not, the extension becomes the messenger but the messenger is not the message. 
 

"The genius of a composer is found in the notes of his music; but analyzing the notes will not reveal his genius. The poet's greatness is contained in his words; yet the study of his words will not disclose his inspiration. God reveals himself in creation; but scrutinize creation as minutely as you wish, you will not find God, any more than you will find the soul through careful examination of your body."
(Awakening : Conversations with the Masters, Anthony De Mello / 2003)
 
            Reading "The Song of the Bird" was  more cathartic than anything else. It was like opening the flood gates or a major breakthrough in therapy. It turned out that I was not alone in my thinking. Someone else was asking the very same questions that I was. This was not some academic exploration of dogma. I had read the books and listened to the sermons. It was like a little crack formed in the sidewalk of who I was at that time. The fact that the author came with authority eased my transition and seem to quell my fears. I found myself somewhat softer when I realized God still loved me and He had all along. The world changed then and there. No longer just all doom and gloom, the crack quickly spread and I began to move forward. This moment, this event, gave me permission. It gave me permission to doubt, permission to examine and to interrogate not only my belief structure but the very concept of God and even the validity of Jesus.. 

"This book has been written for people of every persuasion, religious and non religious. I cannot, however, hide from my readers the fact that I am a priest of the Catholic Church. I have wandered freely in mystical traditions that are not Christian and not religious and I have been profoundly influenced by them. It is to my Church, however, that I keep returning, for she is my spiritual home; and while I am acutely, sometimes embarrassingly, conscious of her limitations and narrowness, I also know that it is she who has formed me and made me what I am today. So it is to her that I gratefully  dedicate this book." 

(The Song of the Bird - Introduction, Anthony De Mello  1984)
 
            Anthony De Mello was born in Bombay, British India in 1931. Raised a Christian, he was a member of the Jesuit province of Bombay. A priest and psychotherapist, De Mello became an "internationally acclaimed spiritual guide, writer and public speaker." His first book, 'The Song of the Bird', was published in 1984. He was the director of the Dadhana Institute of Pastoral Counselling in Poona, India. A friend and follower once claimed that De Mello was all about "waking people up to the reality of their greatness, proclaiming the message of 'awareness'  - seeing the light we are to ourselves and to others, recognizing we are better than we knew." De Mello's bibliography includes 12 books, several published posthumously. He died suddenly at age 55 on June 2, 1987. He suffered a fatal heart attack. His last words, following Communion, were a prayer.

 
"Don't change: Desire to change is the enemy of love.
Don't change yourselves: Love yourselves as you are.
Don't change others: Love all others as they are.
Don't change the world: It is in God's hands and he knows.
And if you do that change will occur
Marvelously in its own way and in its own time
Yield to the current of life unencumbered by baggage."
(Anthony De Mello, June 2, 1987) 

           

            The Song of the Bird contains 124 stories from a variety of traditions, both ancient and modern. Using the art of parable, De Mello illustrates through fable and proverb. Inspiring a journey of sorts, the song is meant to awaken your heart and soul, to kindle who you are meant to be. For me it did just that. As one transcends, the anthology alerts the reader to the constant presence of God in our midst. We should not just observe, we must see. The notion of God surrounding us may change our point of view. When we notice, we can see the wonderment that surrounds us. The message can transform you, if you let it. True knowledge can be shaped by what one knows. Profound realities about our everyday concerns and spiritual matters can be approached from a new perspective if we are willing to allow our mental evaluation of reality to shift into the here and now. To discover God, one only need look.

            De Mello believed that one cannot seek God, one can only find God. Those who seek, are "like the man who travelled all over the world on the back of a buffalo, seeking the definition of 'buffalo', or the fish trying to discover the meaning of the ocean." Spiritual seekers attend conferences, go to retreats and buy book after book looking for the answers. They seldom find any. I know that I didn't. The Song of the Bird revealed to me that the answer is within each of us. It took me on my own journey and revealed to me the God I had been looking for. My unique experience with the divine turned out to be exactly what I was hoping for. Funny how it works that way.  

 "He doesn't just speak about aliveness; he exudes its essence. He wakes us up to the Divine presence in the "ordinary," which becomes extraordinary once we see and taste and feel every moment as God-in-our-midst. His perceptions of a spiritual Master aptly fit his own words: "Take hold of a sentence that he says. Shake it well till all the words drop off. What is left will set your heart on fire."

(Patricia Carlson, American author)
 
            De Mello's concept that good and evil are simply "mental evaluations imposed upon reality" met with condemnation from the Church to which he served. They accused him of "distancing from the essential contents of the Christian faith."  De Mello taught that "religions, including Christianity, are one of the major obstacles to the discovery of truth. The Church, making the word of God in Holy Scripture into an idol, has ended up banishing God from the temple." The Church was not pleased. The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (a Catholic institution) gave De Mello's work "Notification." This warning against the writings of Father Anthony De Mello has done little to hinder the spread of his ideas. I suppose one could say they did little to cage the bird from the song.

 
The Elephant and the Rat

 
An elephant was enjoying a dip in a Jungle pool 

when a rat came up to insist that he get out. 

“I won’t,” said the elephant. 

“I insist you get out this minute,” said the rat.
“Why?” 

“I shall tell you that only after you are out of the pool.”
“Then I won’t get out.”
But he finally lumbered out of the pool, stood in front of the rat and said, “Now then, why did you want me to get out of the pool?”
“To check if you were wearing my swimming trunks,” said the rat.
 
An elephant will sooner fit into the trunks of a rat than God into our notions of him.
(The Song of the Bird, Anthony De Mello  1984)
 
             

Photo

https://www.bookdepository.com/Song-Bird-Anthony-de-Mello/9780385196154

 

Sources

The Song of the Bird (full copy)
Anthony De Mello 1984
http://www.arvindguptatoys.com/arvindgupta/songofbird.pdf
 

 
Anthony De Mello
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_de_Mello
 
Review
http://www.gurteen.com/gurteen/gurteen.nsf/id/anthony-de-mello
 
Vatican Notification
http://www.vatican.va/roman_curia/congregations/cfaith/documents/rc_con_cfaith_doc_19980624_demello_en.html
 
Wiki Quote
http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Anthony_de_Mello
 
Gift People
http://www.gratefulness.org/giftpeople/deMello.htm
 
Awakening : Conversations with the Masters
Anthony De Mello  2003
 

 

 

Moonbeams

 

“Would you like to swing on a star?
Carry moonbeams home in a jar?
And be better off than you are?
Or would you rather be a mule?”
 

 

            The ability to learn is the most important part of being human. It is inherent, built into our framework. If you do not learn your lessons you are destined to repeat them. For those who wallow in their own crapulence, life does the same. The reality is that the process of life is nothing more than a learning curve, and then you die. If there wasn’t teaching, and studying, and recognition, there would no growth, no change and no evolution. Life would be static and seemingly unmovable. Some people are born limited. They struggle with their own ignorance regardless of how many years of education any one person might have acquired.  Higher learning requires one to actually learn. Some people remain as simple as a wood chuck. An education does not automatically negate the lasting effects on those stupefied by the very act of their genetics. You cannot be a little bit pregnant. Sometimes it comes right down to stupid is as stupid does. I should polish up my political correctness. I could choose my words with moderation. This would not take away from the fact that some people just don’t have a clue.

 “A mule is an animal with long, funny ears

He kicks up at anything he hears

His back is brawny and his brain is weak
He’s just plain stupid with a stubborn streak
And, by the way, if you hate to go to school
You may grow up to be a mule”

            He was stunning and I appreciated that. While I was security on one side, he was bartender on the other. We became friends, at least in a casual sense. I liked him as a person and I valued what he put into our friendship. He sure was pretty. His solid muscular body, his very handsome face and his general demeanor made him the star attraction in many a gay man’s night. Management was right to put him behind the bar. Sex sells after all. The entire package of him was what another co-worker called rather “yummy.” I agreed with her completely. Good always comes with the not so good. There is always a price to pay. James was dumber than a tree knot. We had to explain to him how ice was made. He could mix drinks for 10 people, all at the same time, but he couldn’t manage to put his shoes on the right feet. I am unsure if James was aware of his limitations. He struck me as the sort of man who didn’t stop to do anything but brush his teeth. He was shallow and I am sure not only because he was vain. It was like talking to an empty vessel. He was 26, at the time, and he somehow managed to get threw a quarter century of existence. You would think that journey might have rubbed off on him. In the end, he was a dull light bulb ready to be changed. He only lasted a few months then the exhibit closed for good. He was gone but so was his beauty. He didn’t leave because he found another job. He didn’t leave to improve himself with an education or training in an apprenticeship. James, an innocent child it seems, left because he was afraid that by working in a gay bar, the gay would rub off on him. I asked him, when he shared his fate, “aren’t you gay?” 

 “Or would you like to swing on a star?
Carry moonbeams home in a jar?
And be better off than you are?
Or would you rather be a pig?"

             Without some semblance of decorum, we are nothing but animals. Tell that to my late friend Tammy. She was a wonderful companion and I loved her dearly. She died a few years ago yet somehow the odour remains. She was a hoarder, and a rather nasty one at that. For the 20 years that I knew her, I rarely ever went over to her place. She was embarrassed, humiliated and yet did nothing to rectify the situation. Her home was a pigsty. I have known several other hoarders, including a family member, and their chaos was nothing compared to Tammy’s. It wasn’t just too much furniture, too much stuff. Garbage and filth were everywhere. It got worse every time I climbed over what used to be her living room. At least, she didn’t seem to collect her own feces or urine, although I could never be sure what lied under all those piles of debris. I am not sure why I never said anything to her about her quality of living. I suppose, in a clear sense, I was just as embarrassed for her as she was for herself.  It was heartbreaking to venture into her world. I never knew what might crawl out of the piles of trash that literally littered the place. At one visit, I thought the floor was moving but it was only a combination of ants and roaches that tricked my senses. 

"A pig is an animal with dirt on his face

His shoes are a terrible disgrace

He’s got no manners when he eats his food

He’s fat and lazy and extremely rude

But if you don’t care a feather or a fig

You may grow up to be a pig”

            The longer her rampage went on, the harder it was to breathe in her place. I suppose the black mould on almost every wall was the culprit. It wasn't fair that my health might be the price I paid for exposing myself to the mess. Eventually, any invitation I had to return to the scene met with distance and excuses and disinterest. I still cared for my friend but I could not just keep going, condoning her behaviour and her lifestyle. She definitely needed the help I could not give. Even if she had a mental condition that caused the behaviour, she had other options besides ruminating in her own crapulence. She had no shame, no sense of pride. I’m not sure if this detachment was the problem or if she was. All I know is that her death was just as messy as her life had been. Her body, like her kitchen floor, filled with foreign invaders. Things grow in a crowded house.

“Or would you like to swing on a star?
Carry moonbeams home in a jar?
And be better off than you are?
Or would you rather be a fish?"

            The entire coronavirus pandemic has had a limited effect on me. Although I wear a mask (double most times), I socially distance and I work primarily from home, so I am intact for the most part.. Otherwise, there really hasn't been any real burden on my life. I have found that there is a freedom in following Covid-19 protocol.  I tend to feel safe and secure in my sterility. Yes, I miss my friends and I miss my family but I have maintained all my relationships through technology and a want for contact with them. I missed my Dad's 83rd birthday. I know a few people who have contracted Covid-19. Luckily no one I know has died from the disease. I take the pandemic very seriously but there has been little psychological or emotional distress for me to experience. I have handled the entire nightmare rather well. There are those who have not. 
            It is abundantly clear that some people just don't get it. This far into the pandemic and those people just don't seem to give a damn (about themselves or others). They either cut themselves off so completely or they disregard safety and stand in large groups or refuse to stay away. People put recreational sports above their mortality. Dinner with a friend is the only thing that matters. A Barbeque means more than remaining healthy, apparently. Back when the second wave started, I would see large groups of high school students gathering on the main drag in front of the school. Very few wore a mask or socially distanced. They didn't seem to care as they migrated to the local pizza shop. I'm not sure much has changed other than location. Whenever school comes back in session, I still see groups of them lingering, playing with no apparent regard for anything but the moment. I am not sure if this disregard is the result  of upbringing or basic stupidity. I can't tell you how many times someone has walked right up to me, bold faced and without a mask. Mercifully, most people wear a mask in light of the daily count and the Delta and Omicron variants. I remain safe because I follow the rules. This is not something I have excelled at in my past but it works for me now. I wish it worked for everyone.    

 "A fish won’t do anything but swim in a brook

He can’t write his name or read a book

To fool all the people is his only thought

Though he’s slippery, he still gets caught

But then if that sort of life is what you wish

You may grow up to be a fish

A new kind of jumped-up slippery fish”

 

             I don’t believe in fate or serendipity. God’s will is all good and well but I doubt very much that the idea is anything more than just that. While I do not entertain notions like destiny and “meant to be,” I do believe that there are lessons implanted throughout our lives, lessons we must learn or face repeating. This is why learning is so very important for a person who wishes to move past their own ignorance. If we don’t learn then we don’t move forward, we don’t evolve and we become stagnant. Some people like to rummage around in their lives. Staying in the same place is comfortable and easy. It takes no effort at all. You can always do better. If you are stupid, study. If you are dirty, take a bath. If you're out in public, wear the mask. Regardless of our limitations, each one of us has choices and those choices will dictate who we will turn out to be or if we die trying.

 
“And all the monkeys aren't in a zoo
Every day you meet quite a few
So you see, it's all up to you
You can be better than you are
You could be swingin' on a star”
(Swinging On A Star, Bing Crosby 1944)

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9CDs067081E

 

       

 

 Photo

https://foodgram.netlify.app/moonbeams-in-a-jar.html