Feathers

 
“Birds of the same feathers flock together,
and when they flock together they fly so high.”
(Cecil Thounaojam, social media)

            Birds are feathered, winged, two-footed (bipedal), warm-blooded (endothermic), egg-laying, vertebrates. Fossil records indicate that they emerged within a class of theropod (hind-legged) dinosaurs around 160 million years ago, during the Jurassic period. Most Palaeontologists agree that birds are one of the few species of dinosaurs to have “survived the Cretaceous–Palaeogene extinction event 65.5 Ma (million years) ago.” Despite a large predator base, severe climate changes, and a specific extinction factor at the hands of other species, they have not only survived but have flourished. Birds can be found on all seven continents and far outnumber human beings.  
          Some birds, such as the parrot, are among “the most intelligent of all animal species.” They have been observed creating and using tools, and many more “social species exhibit cultural transmission of knowledge across generations.” Birds are social creatures. They communicate with each other using “visual signals and through calls and songs, and participate in social behaviours, including cooperative breeding and hunting, flocking, and mobbing of predators.” A bird’s main method of locomotion is flight. Whether to feed, breed, escape, or to avoid their predator base, flying is the primary method used by birds to survive.  
            There are between “120–130 species of birds that have become extinct as a result of human activity since the 17th century.” 1,200 species of birds are currently threatened with extinction at the hands of humans. Although efforts to protect them are progressing, for many it may already be too late. Despite human disregard for their existence, people throughout history have deified birds. Birds have played both salient and diverse roles in folklore, legend and myth. They have been prominent figures in most aspects of human culture including religion, literature, art and music. 

“Man is a biped without feathers.”

(Plato, Classical Greek Philosopher)

            There are about “10,000 living species of bird” thriving across the planet. Each breed has adapted to the environment where it lives. They thrive off the coast of Iceland and migrate from Canada to Mexico. They dwell in the icy waters off Antarctica and in the deserts of North Africa. There are birds everywhere there is earth. From the smallest hummingbird to the grand ostrich, they come in all shapes, sizes and colours. Some birds do not migrate each year while others travel back and forth, from destination to destination, relentless in their journey. It is estimated there are between “200 billion and 400 billion birds living on the planet at any given time.” The bird population, in spite of the extinction of some species, is vastly greater than most other species. Their abundance matches that of insects, fish and plants. It is ironic that such abundance still occurs, given it is believed that birds did evolve from the dinosaur, a victim of extinction.
            The richness of each species is matched only by the diversity of each flock. Some birds are white and some birds are black. Some birds are streaked with colour while others are plain and layered with earth tones. Each breed is unlike the other and each individual bird is unique, different from all others. Some birds are savage and some birds are silly. There are birds who have never encountered man and birds who feed from his hand. Some birds are eaten and some birds are worshipped. Some birds spend their lives in a cage, entertainment for the masses. There are birds which we believe bring tidings from a new season and birds which we believe harbinger darkness and death. There are mythological birds that rise from fire. There are so many birds, in so many places, that their number resembles the stars in the heavens.
            Each bird is different, even within its own flock. These differentials in colour and size, combined with gender, development and temperament make the individual bird as awe-inspiring as the flock with which it flies. Some birds have families and even practice monogamy. Some birds spend their life alone, waiting to mate. Some are known to murder. Some engage in homosexual activity. Some birds can talk. Some birds make music so sweet that their song inspires poets and lovers alike. Most birds fly. Some birds swim. Most birds have song. All birds have wings. 

“Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings.”
(Victor Hugo, French Poet)

            I wonder if birds consider God, and when they picture it, do they see Big Bird? Do they even believe in God? Do they even believe? Do they question and can they think? Do birds subscribe to loyalty and charity or are they self-absorbed and selfish in their nature? When a bird is flying, soaring high upon the winds, does it look down and become lost in the sight of the planet passing beneath it?  Do they know secret things that only they can see from far above the ground? Do they love and do they hate? Does the sparrow despise the swallow because of its greater speed? Does the starling envy the blue jay for its colour and beauty? Is it possible that birds will abandon their children because they don’t like the way they sing? How do birds know not to sing in the rain?

“A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.” (Maya Angelou, American Poet)

            The human being is a strange animal. I wonder if we would be different if we had feathers? Would we still kill in the name of revenge and justice or would we simply fly away? Would we exorcise each other based on our differences or would we nest together in our common goals? Would we have mercy on the wounded or would we be merciless in trying to save them? Would we feed on the weakness of other breeds or would we find solidarity on the wind and in the clouds? Would our freedom to fly make us more enlightened? Would we flock together or travel alone?
            Would the shape, colour and genetic predisposition of the individual stand as the determination for exclusion or would we simply feed from the same pile of seed? When we take to flight, would we soar merely for the joy of it or would we use our speed, agility and grace to rise above each other, in hopes of ruling the roost? Would we still dream of heaven or would heaven be but a moment away? Would we sit and argue the origin of our species or would we embrace the feather, claw and hallow bones that allow us to glide through space with precision? Would we sing for the sake of singing?
            Would we reject each other, condemn each other and fear each other for our flight patterns or would the earth and sky and air command a better way, a simpler way? Would God consider us all or love only those for whom the way back home is revealed? Would we follow or dare to be free? Would we hate and envy and covet each other or recognize we all come from the same evolutionary egg? Would we finally see that we all are essentially the same species or laugh at the face of diversity, beasts to our ego and our overwhelming sense of self? Would we cage our own kind for entertainment, and in judgment, or would we all be free to follow the sky and the stars and the sun? Would we sing all together? Would we use our wings to move about that sky or would we forget to flap and plunge, then die?
I wonder if we would be different if we all had feathers?

“Shoving feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.”
(Brad Pitt, American actor)

Photo
https://www.vectorstock.com/royalty-free-vector/birds-flying-human-head-vector-22445002



Sources

'How many birds are there?’
Kevin J. Gaston and Tim M. Blackburn

http://www.springerlink.com/content/g462245897502720/

http://books.google.ca/books?id=2V1tHqi4hLEC&pg=PA246&lpg=PA246&dq=birds+outnumber+humans&source=bl&ots=aBLMeuenvQ&sig=sACO8JZmLEjxcpmsZCrpMyoI1ZA&hl=en&sa=X&ei=1urAUKm_BOHC2gXF0YCIDw&ved=0CEsQ6AEwAg#v=onepage&q=birds%20outnumber%20humans&f=false

http://www.whereincity.com/india-kids/animals/birds.htm
http://www.makeuseof.com/dir/allaboutbirds-online-encyclopedia-of-birds/
http://www.your-bird.com/

Black Beetle

“Can you imagine what I would do if I could do all I can?”
(Sun Tzu, Ancient Chinese philosopher)

            

            There are no real super-heroes. Although we like to think there are, they are primarily confined to the pages of comic books, Saturday morning cartoons and blockbuster films like The Avengers. True heroes have no real special powers to battle the injustices of this life. Policemen, firemen and the like are mere mortals, restricted by their humanity, but heroes nonetheless. As children, we imagine the tales to which we are exposed are somehow real in their representation, but they are not. Like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, super men are high myth and legend, created to inspire the imagination and reveal lessons that otherwise might have to wait until we discover them academically or exponentially as full grown adults.
            Every super-powered character is an archetype, designed to enliven our sense of justice and teach us the hard lessons that may not occur naturally through experience. In antiquity, there was no shortage of these larger than life figures. In Homer’s the Iliad and the Odyssey, Odysseus (also known as Ulysses) is renowned for his “brilliance, guile and versatility” and is hence known as “the Cunning.” In Roman and Greek literature, Hercules (Heracles) was a demigod, the son of Zeus and a mortal woman (Alcmene). In classical mythology, “Hercules is famous for his strength and for his numerous far-ranging adventures.” The Scandinavian epic poem Beowulf introduces us to the title character, who manifests much bravery and the skill of a great warrior in defeating the monster known as Grendel and her mother.
            In Biblical literature, there is no shortage of mighty men with wondrous powers. Noah seems ageless, living to almost 1000 years. Samson’s hair gave him incredible strength and Daniel was able to survive a raging den of lions. Moses welded magic that could control the elements and even summon death. In the New Testament, Jesus walked on water and calmed the storm while his Apostles could speak in any language while trying to convert Pagans to their new religion. It would appear that in the past there was no lack of super beings.  It is a curious thing that we have been left almost empty handed in our modern age. A few self-professed healers and psychics are the only lifeline we have to those with special abilities. It is no wonder that the adventures of fictional characters like Spiderman and Superman draw us in and reinforce the primal lessons that we find in more scholastic works.

“Some parents say it is toy guns that make boys warlike. But give a boy a rubber duck and he will seize its neck like the butt of a pistol and shout "Bang!"
(George F. Will, American journalist/author))

            The black bodysuit my Mom made for me fit until I was almost 12 years old. It hung loose and carefree on my form and it covered me completely. Originally, it had been crafted as a bat costume, with cardboard wings and a hood. I can remember vividly running down Roywood Drive, in Toronto, on a snowy Halloween night, possessed by imagination and into fancy flight and fury. The snow that fell left those wings quite damaged and they quickly faded into nothing but memory. I was no more than 7 or 8 when I first donned that dark armor and headed out into the world to defeat evil. Although reinvented, year after year, this beacon from my childhood points to all the fantasies now gone and wishes never gained.  
            Of all the things I wish I still had from my past, that black exoskeleton is one of the heirlooms most desired. It held my innocence, the hero I once believed I was, all tucked away in its pockets and stored with the way I used to be. I was activated by the donning, swept into a different world and a different way where good and evil still had clear lines and God was more of an ally and not so much a foe. Unfortunately, it was lost to time and the pubescent distraction growing up always seems to bring. I never felt more free, or more in tune with my true nature, as I did whenever I stole away and turned from boy to champion. It was such an easy process, one I wish I could still manifest.  
            It is a pity we abandon those things we later tend to hold so dear, at least in retrospect. Alas, my black costume, hood and all, has crumbled like missing moments from my recall of an infancy long gone into dust. It has fallen with all the castles and all the heroes and all the wonders my mind could once create. I can journey to then, but only in glimpses, as if putting together a puzzle of what really happened and what I once believed I could be. Nevertheless, it still holds a place for me. I close my eyes and I am transported, back to a kinder life and a safer place. In that fraction of space and time, so returns the Black Beetle.

“I reject your reality and substitute it for my own.”
(Adam Savage, American Industrial/Special Effects designer)

            We moved from Toronto Ontario to Strathroy Ontario in late summer of 1976. Eventually, my family of seven settled into a large home located next to a Catholic School and Church, also adjacent to the downtown area. The lot across the way was large, bordered by portables on one side, a baseball diamond/field on another and then the school and Church sat prominently in the centre of the area. If you passed through the schoolyard, you would find yourself surrounded by the downtown stores and bustle of this small town. The area was primarily middle class, although a few grand homes were scattered throughout the neighbourhood. The population of the town back then was a combination of white Anglo-Saxon Protestant and Portuguese Roman Catholic, mixed in with small groups of Eastern Asian and other immigrant classes. Not much has changed.
            The home we maintained on Arthur Street, which piggybacked onto the schoolyard, was huge and had a spacious front and back yard. In the far rear of the grounds was an old wooden shed which must have been used at one time to store a tractor and other maintenance equipment. It is within the decrepitated remains of that building that we found our cats Muffy and Misty, newly born and feeding on their mother Molly. A squirrel we called Charlie lived somewhere in the rotting mess, returned to the branches above having been healed from a wound thanks to my Mother. For a disheveled and broken down frame, it served its purpose well. At least it served its purpose well for me. It was the perfect hideout for my intentions to free the neighbourhood of what I called the “Children of Doom”. Since we were located so close to the Catholic school, our precinct was heavy with Portuguese families, each one hatching hairy child after child, demonized one and all by their attention to ugly homes and the prominent use of squirrel as a food source. I was 12 years old and I did not recognize such things as prejudice and stereotypes. I was on the verge of an innocence lost but I had yet to wander very far into that territory. I was merely creating fabricated villains that I could vanquish from the world I was about to create.
            My black hood covered all of my head but the face. I took aluminum foil and covered a goalie mask with it, magically rendering it a harbinger of swift justice. My bodysuit fit me well and my leather winter boots acted as insulation from the fires of hell I had decided to battle. I wore black bicycle gloves and carried a hockey stick wrapped in black utility tape. I spray painted my 10-speed army green. Suddenly, I was ready to launch my heroic assault on the minions of Arthur Street. I was prepared and I was ready, but first it was time for dinner.
            I road quietly down the back lane off our street and intently zoomed around the corner. I was full force, a mix of black and silver and army green, streaking like those daring men you see on TV. There before me stood several young children, dazed and confused by the entity before them. I rode rapidly past them all, laughing out loud and swinging my long black weapon, like a cowboy wrangling a steer at the rodeo. I stopped with precision and cast my staff’s tip upon the ground. They stood for a moment, even more confused. I started on my steed once again, heading directly towards them this time. They scattered like chickens, ironically enough, and fled to the safety of their humble abodes. I silently headed back to my headquarters.
            Throughout that summer, I championed the cause of my imagination. I rode through the neighbourhood almost daily, all vacation long. The kids of the area took way too much time to catch on. I would chase them about like pigeons, wanting to play hardball but sympathetic to the species. Occasionally, I would do battle with some bully, hopping off my mighty transport and fisticuffing until defeat was achieved, or until my Mom called me home for Star Trek reruns.
            When my identity was questioned, I would dress my sister in full garb, having her prance about some backyard as a demonstration I was not the man in question. What fun we both had. As far as I know, outside my family, no one ever really learned the alter ego of that masked vigilante. I was sure he was a sight they would never forget. It was a rush to transform into someone I clearly was not. I took to the part like one of the neighbourhood kids would take to Jesus. The thrill of it all still has to be equaled. No rollercoaster, no love affair, has ever matched the excitement and adventure I discovered simply by placing myself into that old bat costume and becoming the Black Beetle.    

“Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.”
(Albert Einstein, German-born Theoretical physicist)

            As summer ended and school summoned both hero and villain alike, I knew that the reign of the mutant-insect-man would soon come to an end. I remember placing my wonderful black suit and hood, with my silver foiled mask and bicycle gloves, deep inside the recesses of an overburdened closet. For the life of me, I cannot recall what became of them. Perhaps, with time, they changed and like my imagination became quite hidden and mostly lost. Perhaps, on some dark night, another brave soul stole into my domain and was granted reprieve through the power I once yielded so succinctly. Eventually, even my headquarters fell away, gone forever.
            When I look back on the life I have led, I overflow with laughter and wonder and a pleasing sense of achievement whenever I revisit those tales of the Black Beetle. They have become fragments of light from my somewhat dark and bitter past. My Mother and I used to sit in the kitchen and endlessly chuckle while we remembered the way things used to be and how easy it was for me to be both a superhero and a royal pain in the ass. Even to glimpse in my mind those poor children’s faces is enough to illuminate my day with glimmers of joy and happy reflection.
            Like with most things in life, the past is but a mirror, reflecting the best and often the worst of a life so lived. I wish I could still close my eyes and create a place where I could stand so complete in my innocence. If only I would imagine being a greater soul and freeing those trapped by tyranny and oppression. I just can’t seem to manifest the freedom required when shifting into dreamscape or notion. I suppose that as children, we are not so weighted down by the ways of this world. For them, it seems easier and life tends to be viewed without judgment. People who are different, with different coloured skin, can be transformed into the villain without all the perplexing drama of political correctness and social conformity. Things are merely because they are.
            I still long for simpler days and I have even wished I could host a return of the Black Beetle in some marathon of Saturday morning programming. I cannot. Time has stolen the one power the Black Beetle has which I do not, childhood imagination. I can still close my eyes and wish I could. I can still take myself to a place where I think I can, but there are no more superheroes set to save the world. There is seldom laughter for the things which used to be. Like with all great tales from the past, there is only longing and a sense that things were better when and where.
            They tell you that you have to grow up and put all your childish ways behind you. We then become so lost in today that we forgot almost all of our yesterdays. Eventually, the child within disappears altogether. We are adults, we play adult games and dream adult dreams. Our imagination dies with the very part of us that once fed its course. We hunt in our memories for those simpler things, the kinder ways that stroked our sensibilities and revealed the incredible. They vanish as adulthood weaves complexity and delusion into our lives. Time is supposed to be our friend, but it strips us of the past and leaves only teardrops swimming in an ocean of all we have ever been.
            We cannot go back even if we want to. The best we can do is recall those moments and in them find a better place where we can hide ourselves. Never again will the streets of my small town shudder at the fury of the Black Beetle, but in my memory he can ride again. It should be easy to just shut my eyes and journey back to that friendly place and that uncorrupted time. I might go back to the way things used to be, a mindscape. Unfortunately, there is something now missing, as my body ages and my mind fixates on the man I turned out to be. There is no more make believe and there are still no superheroes. I have looked but not one can be found.

“When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them; they show us the state of our decay.” (Brian W. Aldiss, English author)
 
 
 
 
Sources
Tales of the Black Beetle

(Originally Posted Wednesday, November 17, 2010)
http://simplekel.blogspot.ca/2010/11/tales-of-black-beetle.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Odysseus

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hercules
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beowulf

 

 

Photo

http://www.geekosystem.com/these-superhero-silhouettes-have-to-be-home-for-dinner/

Steps

originally posted
March 11, 2019

“He who learns must suffer, and, even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.” (Aeschylus c. 525 - 456 BCE)

            As far back as I can remember, I have sensed something outside of myself. As a child, I believed I could hear it in the wind and see it in the rain. I have never been sure exactly what it is but I have always sensed I was never alone. As I grew up, religion instructed me as to its substance and character and I was told the dimensions by which it existed. No matter how much doctrine and theocracy was placed before me, I could not imagine that my comforting and invisible friend was merely a wise old man, very human and very unpredictable, glaring from a distance at my life in judgment.

            I believe that life is much more than a mere journey we are forced to take towards death. I believe that life is an unending path that continues to shape us all, even when we have died and passed on to some otherland. We are, after all, spiritual beings in a human experience, not just human beings searching for spiritual directives. We can discover purpose as we walk along but only if we allow ourselves to awaken to a better God and a better way. The experiences we have, the people we meet on our journey, the knowledge we accumulate from external sources all act as tools, forging us into that something better, if we allow them. We are here to learn.

            Whether we recognize a greater reason, or cast our salvation at the feet of a deity, is beside the point. No matter what you do, no matter how you hide, one cannot evade the hard cold lessons life stacks upon us. Most days, it's all one can do to survive God, let alone live up to impossible standards that come built into humanity through religion. We spend so much time worrying about whether we are doing what is right, saying the prescribed words and feeling acceptable things, that we don't notice how much more to this world there is. Most people can’t afford the time. They keep walking, step by step,  and miss all the scenery. Sometimes, it is hard to notice anything, especially when it appears (for all intensive purposes) that there is not much for us to notice. So, we just make it up in our heads, just for good measure.

            When I look back on my life, often with much resolved sadness, I can see clearly why the things I know and the road I have travelled appear meant for me and me alone. When I see my life, in flashes, I understand fully why I had to face my experiences and how, like a whisper, the Spirit I knew was there all along. Who I am is therefore defined not only by my experiences but my reaction to them. In a sense, how I feel becomes who I am. My reasoning does not always master my emotions but my emotions usually master my reasoning. We are cumulative. We are the sum of all these things. It is not, however, that we are only made up of where we have been. We are much more than snapshots from the side of the road. Each motion we take, each purpose we find, seems to fit. It is exactly how we are supposed to see. I still believe that our life is not predestined but the lessons we are supposed to learn most certainly are.

            Everything I am as a person, every good thing and every bad thing, is the reason I was put here. The journey is that which will carry me and create me. If I allow myself to be moulded by the Presence we call God, life becomes a step forward, not just some mission. It matters little your faith, but you must have some if you are going to try and understand. We are all but particles of energy and matter, spun together in harmony with the searching soul inside us. Every scene from our lives lifting us, making us into the person we were meant to be. When we become more aware, in touch with the unknown, and pay attention to the reasons behind the way our life has unfolded, we then can recognize the motion of something from beyond this mortal coil. In the end, the anatomy of our being and the accumulation of our experiences are the way that leads to light.

            We can only trust that despite what others say, and what we have been taught to believe, the unknown current that creates everything, including the road we follow, will lead us to where we are supposed to go. When we examine that path, and all it entails, it does nothing if not promote the same ideals we started out with. Every person on this planet is a child of God, whether we care to recognize that or not. We must realize that the way that leads us home (to whatever being lies waiting), is the very thing that will determine what we do when we get there. Each moment, each scene from a life is a revelation of the true nature of the force which guides us and calls us on.

            Life is hard and cold and painful but it is also tender and beautiful and rewarding. It really is all in how one looks at it. When you take the time to notice, your life can change from a burden to freedom. It is our scars which heal us strong on this journey that we take. The things we know and the experiences we have may be heavy but they build strength and fortitude in the face of sheer misery. It is all we can do to survive the gods men have created. Sometimes that which we believe should heal us makes much deeper wounds. It is harsh reality that all must suffer. Life is suffering.

            As time passes on and the ways of childhood drift behind us like snow on a Canadian highway, a life so lived becomes a labyrinth, a puzzle put together by time and consequence. Each piece is unique unto itself. If you want to witness who you are supposed to be, stop and see where you have been. Pay attention to this life and all that comes with it and you will see, without reservation, the secret that religious dogma fails to reveal. Each one of us, from the heretic to the holy, already has the answers but we fail to give them substance. If the unexamined life is not worth living, then it’s time to examine it. Take notice. There is a road inside of you and inside me there is one too. All you are required to do is to put one foot in front of the other.

“Put one foot in front of the other

And soon you’ll be walking ‘cross the floor

Put one foot in front of the other

And soon you’ll be walking out the door

You never will get where you’re going

If you never get up on your feet

Come on, there’s a good tail wind blowing

A fast walking man is hard to beat”

(Santa Claus is Coming to Town, Rankin/Bass Productions, 1970)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OORsz2d1H7s

Photo

Iron Horse Trail

Brantford Ontario Canada

Fall 2011

Waking Up Dead

originally published
November 25, 2010

“Sometimes it’s not a question of why but why not.” 

‘Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, 

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 

To the last syllable of recorded time; 

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 

The way to dusty death. 

Out, out, brief candle! 

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, 

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 

And then is heard no more. 

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 

Signifying nothing.’ 

(Macbeth, [Act 5, Sc 5, 19–28], William Shakespeare)

I woke up quietly, unafraid and lost to the world. There was no cold in the air and no heat I could feel. The room was tepid. Soft and silent, like the snow which was falling outside. I opened my eyes looking, searching. I glanced around and realized I was still alone. No fall had broken me. I was not sure what all this was and I wondered if this be heaven or hell, or someplace in between. My clothes were missing and I was bathed in blue and white. I tried to move myself about but I was dizzy and confused. I rose in the bed which had caught me and sat like a little boy, slowly waking from his first dream. I turned and angled myself from my place and stepped onto the floor below. It was cold and damp and sent chills into my shoulders. I did not know where I was. I raised myself up to a proper place and found balance on the edge of the bed I had abandoned. I closed my eyes once more and took a deep breath, then started out towards the door. The room seemed as large as forever and I wondered if I shouldn’t just find solace in the place from which I had come. I still sensed no reason for fear or trepidation. All was quiet but for a distant hum from a place unseen. I headed out. Step by step, predictably, I moved towards the large brown barrier which stood between then and now and for always. Quickly, I was overwhelmed and fell back to my safety. Like the ocean had found refuge in my belly, I reached for the pan beside the pillow and purged my seasick ways. Colours flashed before my eyes, dangling oddly fashioned rainbows made up of pills and ice before me. I reached for more, in spite of the surging sea, but missed my pot of gold. I still had no idea where I was. Once more I rose, this time with fortitude, longing to see what was behind the door. Was it mingled, like candy, all sweet and demure? Was it harsh and heavy like a burden stinging with prickly heat from below? My pulse raced and I stood, cavalierly turning from the pain into might. Each step was cautiously made so as not to provoke any demon that might be lurking about. One after the other, I scaled over each tile with precision in spite of my weakness. As I approached the door those colours, which had danced in rainbows, returned with vertigo and no safe place to find. With caution to the wind I lurched forward, falling against the door. I slumped down onto the tiled pavement and closed my eyes. The last thing I said to myself as I tumbled to the floor was "God damnit, it didn't work again."

I started popping pills the second I saw the town marker. It didn’t take me long to swallow almost 100 x 10 mg blue drops of valium salvation. Combined with the cold, and the wind, I was desperate to be rewarded. I made sure that this time I didn’t eat or drink anything for at least 3 days before. This had to work. I just couldn’t keep going, there was no fucking way. I headed straight into the heart of Stratford and turned onto the street that ran parallel to death alley. As I approached the cemetery entrance, my world started spinning. I thought, how convenient I did not have to ram the gate, as it was open. I was suddenly overcome. Everything seemed to go black and I couldn’t see where I was going. I sped up to secure safety in Avondale, then slowed as I pulled into the rustic entrance, all cast iron and majestic. I made a quick turn, heading for my new home. I swerved, barely missing one of the old relic headstones which greet you like Acolytes without a sanctuary. The world began to slow in speed, like some freeze-frame kaleidoscope, hoping to be turned. I was consumed in the tunnel. The music in the car started to slur like a crackhead asking for cash. The last thing I saw was the center median, piled high with snow, and the blur of contact, then into darkness. I fell over, slumping against the steering wheel, and closed my eyes for what I prayed be the last time. 

The light was queer and tiny, yet its shine filled up the tunnel like first light calls the dawn. I could hear it. The sound was constant and buzzing, like birds flying en masse to migration points in my soul. It was not maddening but peaceful, soothing like a summer wind or the feel of silk on a humid day. I did not see where it came from, for the walls of this tunnel turned in darkness, cloaking the life behind it for none to see. Ahead, the light began to grow stronger, grow larger. I did not need to move, rather it came to me like a firefly, growing bigger and constant, moving towards me in silent revelry. I did not think and I did not feel. I was baptized by the glow, dancing in the birdsong and swaying in the unknown. Two stood before me. Backlit with faces lost in the shadow. Both men were tall and strong. You could tell they wore beards from the hints of light that caused glimmers of who they were. The light filled all around me and I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. He came forward, with certainty, and called my name. His words were gunshots to my yearning sense of defeat and he said, “You cannot come. It is not your time.” I could not speak, although I tried to scream out that I did not wish to go back. He walked to me, touched my shoulder and lifted me into his arms. 

The door was cool to the touch and I could feel it through the blue and white hospital robe I wore like a tunic. The floor beneath me added its icy touch to an already cold disposition. I was pissed. How could this have happened? I made sure this time, I double checked. There is no possible way I could have survived a slumber in such ghastly conditions, filled with the poison that was supposed to kill. Waking to my parents faces changed my disposition but only until they had left me. Perhaps this was hell and the devil was tricking me, making me think I exist in the same place I had just escaped from. This could not be heaven for my burden was still heavy and I found no peace, just wanting. I tried to get up but I couldn’t. My legs gave way under me like a wimp trying to impress some girl with a feat of strength. I realized I had failed. I knew where I was and I wasn’t happy. I sat on the floor, leaning on the door and cursed nature and science and God. The Trinity I had relied upon had somehow failed me, like religion fails the poor and humble in their time of need. Slowly I found my resolve. I arose cautiously, my legs quivering like some little child caught outside in the cold. My ass was frozen. Finally, as I stood and turned, grabbing the metal handle, I opened the door and moved outside. The hum I had heard earlier sang out in chords to all around. The smell of sterility burned my nostrils and made me sick again. Down the corridor, I saw my Minister approaching me with an artificial smile. He explained to me what had happened. I had hit the median, and then fled, leaving the car running with the driver’s side door open. I left the music playing loudly and as I wandered through the cemetery, removing some pieces of clothing in the process. I must have fallen and hit a headstone. I continued walking until I found my destination. I threw myself into the snow. The next day, 15 hours after I entered the graveyard, I was found on the other side of this place, near the railway tracks, alive and very cold. When we finished talking, my Minister asked me how I got to the other side of the cemetery. I replied that I must have walked in my stupor. “Why?” I asked. “Well,” he replied, “they found your footprints leading to the grave, but they couldn’t find any leading to where you were found.” 

Forsaken

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.” (Matthew 13:44-46, NIV)

            Specifically in the Christian tradition, seeking God is supposed to be the priority. We are to pursue “heavenly things” and not the trappings of this life. Unfortunately, along the path to Holiness, we aren’t basking in the glow of our own divinity. We are pretty much on our own, regardless of whether the Bible tells us so or not. We know little of any real truth and have nothing but the religious tradition we are indoctrinated into as the proverbial shoulder to lean on. There is nothing there, I fear. At least, there is nothing there for me. If there really is a God, the entire process of “seek and you shall find” can seem anticlimactic to any one hunting for treasure. After all, “small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it” (Matthew 7:14, NIV). Salvation comes with no guarantee yet we are instructed that it is inherent in any coming kingdom, not because of its lesson but because it holds “greater value than all the world’s riches.” How apropos. In the New Testament, Jesus is purported to have taught that our focus in life should not fall upon the ways of the world. We must first seek God (“and his righteousness”) and then all the things we search for will be freely given to us (Matthew 6:33). This never happens. At least, it never happens for me.  To be clear, until we abandon all earthly things and ignore any allurement they might offer us, we cannot be saved. Submit or suffer, I suppose. We should place utmost importance on God’s favour and in so doing we must then repent and believe in the good news that the Christ has offered to mankind. I’m still waiting on the afternoon edition.

            It can seem rather futile to search for God. We are told that if one looks for Him with “all your heart and all your soul” that one can “find Him” (Deuteronomy 4:29, NIV).  It can be a difficult task hunting for something that cannot be found. At least, I can never find anything, anything worth keeping at any rate. Maybe it’s not God, maybe it’s me. Perhaps I have been blinded and perhaps I have failed to see the truth before my very eyes. I think I know my way but I find myself lost, lost and fumbling in the futility of it all. It’s like hunting for Easter eggs on Halloween or opening Christmas presents on Labour Day. For all the struggle, for the challenges it brings, I always find there is nothing, there is nothing there, it would appear. God promised to take care of those who love Him, He would provide for His own, supplying every need (Philippians 4:19). Semantics aside, if God can thusly provide, then arguably there would be no one hurting, there would be no one hungry, there would be no pain, no separation and no misery. No one would have to rest in the doom this life can bring. If God supplies our every need then we would have none. This is the only explanation that makes sense to me. For all our hollering, for the bluster we crash about in, perhaps the God we thought was there was never there to begin with. Perhaps there is something else, something that, in a sense, reveals to us the answer, or some semblance of it at any rate.  Since “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23, NIV), the playing field would be level. Any blessing a “Christian” or a “Muslim” would receive from God would be a blessing that everyone receives. If we all are all equal, if there are no favourites, then we would all share in the wealth. Not even the righteous fall under the Grace of their Lord. We all suffer and continue to do so. We all hunger, we know misery. We are all truly alone. It is just not true that those who diligently seek God will find God (Proverbs 8:17).  

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.” (Matthew 7:7-8, NIV)

            It can be taken personally when you ask God for assistance and don’t receive it. You can wait and wait but it’s all for nothing, All the promises made in scripture really don’t meet the expectations we have regarding Divine intervention. I don’t believe that there is intervention, at least not in the conventional sense. God no more hands out blessings than he does hardship. Life is life and along the way we thrive and then we suffer. By asking God for assistance or favour or more blessings, we are simply clinging to what, apparently, never can be. Our struggle is ours alone and God dropping in to help us along seems to defeat the purpose of all our trials and tribulations. How can one learn from struggle if every time we fumble, the Lord makes it all better? It just doesn’t work that way, at least it doesn’t work that way for me. In all my years, God has never once directly answered a prayer or followed through on a promise made. I thought He did but I was mistaken. Yes, the mere idea of God can bring peace and contentment to a weary soul but that is simply you manifesting, not the Holy. We really do create what we need when it comes right down to it, whether Jesus lived that way or not. We want to find God’s favour. We want to feel special, enchanted and we particularly want to fall under God’s protection. Why worry when God will look after it? Why try to be better when we can let God take up the slack? The rub is, once we believe that God has elected us, we have little responsibility. It is now God’s will, not ours. Freedom will become an illusion. If God interferes with a person’s journey then it isn’t really a journey. It is more an amusement park ride we get off of in around 5 minutes time. If God steps in, if He intervenes in our affairs, what does that say about God? Most certainly, the world is full of starving, broken and damaged people but God, of course, helps the frustrated white housewife looking to lose weight instead. Rather than assisting the weak and the battered, Blake Shelton gets another Grammy, by the Grace of God. If you look, you can find this deity, he is the father who loves some children more than the others. If you look, you can find him ignoring everyone but the chosen few. If God works this way, if only the elect matter, then the rest of us are lost.

            I believe in God as much as I ever have. It is my definition of Him that has changed over the years. I have spent countless time looking, seeking for even a morsel of sustenance. I mostly got nothing. There have been moments throughout my life I felt a presence, when I thought God was near. While those experiences seemed real to me at the time, I am no longer sure exactly what they were. For all the bells and whistles, I never received anything that I could not have manifested myself. God is not a feeling, even if we tell ourselves He is. I have fully surrendered. I have reached and wrestled and earnestly sought to not only understand but have the rewards I was taught would be mine should I relinquish my will to God’s will. Maybe I am doing something wrong? I keep looking, striving to find it but I rarely do. It has taken me a great deal of time to let go of the God that I knew growing up. I had to dump it into the ether. It became clear to me that “sometimes surrender means giving up trying to understand and becoming comfortable with not knowing” (Tolle). I have had to abandon my upbringing, cancel the course. I have had to re-examine everything I was taught about the Christian God. While seeking Jesus got me nowhere, the disconnection garnered me everything. When you pray and beg for mercy and it never comes, you eventually turn to a position that explains that away. If there is nothing then there is no reason, it’s not personal, it is just the way God really works. One day I woke up and I realized, I came to see that we are not to know, we cannot see. All the searching in the world accomplishes nothing if the truth just isn’t there. There is no Otherland in these terms. I consider myself a man of god, despite what my worst critics would claim. I have much faith that I am right in my thinking. I stand firm. It is not that we cannot seek better things and hope for a better life. There is nothing wrong with gaining knowledge or strengthening your mortal resolve. I don’t believe God has anything to do with it. He just isn’t involved, not because He isn’t there, or doesn’t care, but because He can’t be.

“The Lord is with you when you are with him. If you seek him, he will be found by you, but if you forsake him, he will forsake you.” (2 Chronicles 15:2, NIV)

            It would be easy for me to give in and fall in line. I have enough faith to serve the cause. The problem is that I no longer believe that any Christian cause I may follow holds any more real truths than any other religion, cult or belief structure. God is not exclusive to “the Way.” I could fake it. I could artificially earn my salvation, appearing saved to others while lost within myself. I just can’t do it. I just can’t say that I am okay with the representation of God claimed through the Judeo-Christian scriptures. It’s not okay for God to be more human than Holy, more punisher than Prince. It’s not okay. I would have to once again trust that any entity watching over me has my best interests in mind. Such a deity that would be willing to disrupt reality with magical answers to prayers, prayers that for the most part are self-serving. In fact, the Church and the Bible have been so misguided when telling us just where we came from that I find it impossible to listen when they tell me where I am going. It is a narrow path indeed. I seek but cannot find. I knock but no doors open. I have found it and its like there is nothing there. 

“God warned the people of an earthquake that would swallow up the waters of the land. The water that replaced them would make everyone insane. Only the prophet took God seriously. He saved up a supply of water in his mountain cave to last him till he died. Sure enough, the earthquake came, the water vanished and new water tilled the streams and lakes and rivers. A few months later the prophet came down to the plains. Everyone had indeed gone mad, and attacked him, for they thought it was he who was insane. So the prophet went back to his mountain cave, glad for the water he had saved. But he could not bear his loneliness so he went down to the plains once more. Again he was rejected by the people for he was so unlike them. The prophet then succumbed. He threw away the water he had saved, drank the new water with the people and became one with them in their insanity. The way to Truth is narrow. You always walk alone.”

(The Narrow Path - Song of the Bird, Anthony De Mello 1982)

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Photo

https://www.shutterstock.com/video/clip-14463112-stock-footage-boston-ma-feb-studying-holy-bible-with-magnifying-glass-on-february-the-holy-bible.html?src=rel/3668972:9

Sources

https://www.gotquestions.org/seek-first-kingdom-God.html

https://lifehopeandtruth.com/prophecy/kingdom-of-god/seek-ye-first-the-kingdom-of-god/

http://www.tellthelordthankyou.com/blog/2017/8/31/matthew-633-god-first

http://www.arvindguptatoys.com/arvindgupta/songofbird.pdf

Elegy

 

originally posted: 

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

           

            It was just before 1:00 AM when I lost it. I had sat waiting, calling everyone I knew over and over on the landline. Suddenly, the reality hit me. I had to go out looking, I had to try and find him. The bitterness of a Canadian winter whistled past warmed windows, reminding me how bad it really had become outside. This only agitated my panic further. If someone didn't find him soon, the weather would claim him for sure. He had not taken a coat or his boots. No scarf or hat was missing. He had left with his keys and the clothes on his back. It was going on 6 hours since I had arrived home and found the place empty. You could immediately tell something was wrong from the behaviour of the cats and from the two broken dishes on the kitchen table. When the clock struck the top of the hour, I started to freak out. I ransacked the closet, desperately looking for winter wear to layer as protection against the whipping wind and snow. I piled on long-johns, wool socks and coat after coat, believing I knew where he might have gone. I finally headed out to face the storm, my keys stuffed down in a pocket and three scarves over my face up to the nose. I slipped out back and into the night.
            For some reason, I had convinced myself that he had headed out of town, following the train tracks from Strathroy north towards Poplar Hill. In hindsight, he had often talked about just disappearing like hobos did in the 1930s and riding the rails. It didn't hurt that the train station stood 500 metres out the rear entrance. The police had tried to console me, they would keep an eye out for him in the town. Our friends had no clue were he might be, he had not contacted them. My family, and his family, seemed sympathetic, but I could tell they thought I was overreacting.  On the early morning of February 13^th, 1995, overstuffed into warmth like Randy Parker from A Christmas Story,  I waddled past the car and out onto the railway tracks. The snow was rather heavy and the wind was not my friend. Despite the piles of shelter wrapped around me, I immediately started shaking. I knew there was no time to waste.
            Past the train station, then the lumberyard, I quickened my pace. I completely failed to notice the flour mill sitting still and silent only feet from our home. Beyond the houses and the storage units, I wandered, only stopping on occasion to brush the snow that had accumulated on my scarves and the front of my legs. It was a tempest out. When I passed the 10^th concession, leaving the city lights behind me, I started to call out for him. I battled not only the harshness of the gale but the wail of a strong north wind battering my senses. I pushed forward, crying out again and again, begging God that I might somehow find him. The depth of the snow to each side of the tracks tricked me into thinking he may be hiding beneath the waves of white all around me. Every tree I imagined might be him, standing, waiting for me to discover him shivering in the cold. The further down this road I fashioned, the more hopeless I began to feel. The more hopeless I became, the louder my cries. In an act of desperation, I started to bargain with God. It was the thunder down the way that brought me back to reality.
            For a moment, I considered standing my ground and facing the oncoming locomotion. The headlight and whistle tempted me close to destruction. As the train approached me, I had to make a decision. I asked myself if I should continue on this inevitable quest or just lay down and give in to abandon. The jump was mighty and just in time. I flung myself into a pile of winter, deep and rippled at the side of the rails. Its fury shook me as the rage of the metal caravan attempted to tug me into it. I curled up in a standing ball, holding my place by the grace of something other than God. The backlight and curls of snow seemed like a will-o'-the-wisp, a mystical sign of its passing. I slowly turned around and started to crawl back onto the trail. I stood in futility, well knowing the fate that had elected me. From the moment I had walked through the front door, I just knew. I could feel he was gone from the second I found him missing. The train was a sign for me, a harbinger of the doom that was soon to expose itself. As the world spun in a torrent all around me, I gave up and fell on top of the cold hard ties. The torment was much more than I could handle. I was tempted, once again, to stand this ground until my doom, but I rose instead and started screaming.
            It was like my soul had left me, my cry was fierce and it cut through the dark. In the distance, dogs began to howl with me. Perhaps they knew. Like a symphony of pain, defeat and resignation, our ululation lingered like the train still fading in the distance. It was agony to know I had no power, no recourse but to slink back home and wait for the outcome I already knew. I could feel him leaving. I just knew he was gone. I looked all around me and began to sob. My tears froze in the savageness of this cold. My eyes were flooded by puddles of ice and surrender. The walk back to life was heavy on me. No matter how I sought, I just could not find him. As I approached some semblance of sanctuary, I once again was blinded to the flour mill and the secret that it held. Come the break of dawn, it would reveal itself.

"Alone in this house

Again, tonight

I got the TV on,

The sound turned down and a bottle of wine

There's pictures of you and I on the walls around me

The way that it was and could have been

Surrounds me

I'll never get over you walkin' away"

 
            Life goes on, whether we want it to or not is irrelevant. It took months before I could function again. I was almost as crippled by his fall as he was. I was much more fortunate in my outcome. It became quite apparent to me that the dead do not rise again, but we do. Night after night I sat pining, never tricked by his shadow or any light that might reveal to me a glimpse of him. This in no way halted me praying for such mercy. The drugs and the booze made little difference. This withdrawal from life only made me worse. So many people told me it was not my fault. Each attempted to convince me that I was not the reason he had just walked away. I could not imagine that this was so. I lost myself to the agony. I do not know how I survived such pain. I had never been one to show my feelings. I had never been an open book before. No matter where I was, you could clearly tell my angst and misery. I was overwhelmed by my grief and a lingering sense of contrition. It was as if I had died there with him.

"I've never been the kind

To ever let my feelings show

And I thought that bein' strong meant

Never losin' your self-control

But I'm just drunk enough

To let go of my pain

To hell with my pride

Let it fall like rain

From my eyes

Tonight I wanna cry"

             Not all wounds find themselves a scar. Some anguish never really fades away. Quite often, you just get used to the pain. Time goes by, but this does little to help one heal. God never comes down from heaven and Jesus rarely, if ever, answers your prayers. If you are lucky, you learn to welcome its hold. What once was a stranger can turn into your friend. This does not lessen the lasting crush of loss or lighten the load one must bear. Eventually, as with all things in this life, we come to find a place for all the misery to rest. We start to recognize the lessons such a tragedy can bring to us. If we are smart, we make a conscious decision to pay attention. No matter how hard the past, you can always start all over again. Quite often, the most destructive and chaotic events from our life can produce much fruit. Sometimes, the worst thing that has happened to you can become the very best thing that has ever happened to you.

"Would it help

If I turned a sad song on

'All By Myself'

Would sure hit me hard now that you're gone

Or maybe unfold some old yellow lost love letters

It's gonna hurt bad

Before it gets better

But I'll never get over you

By hiding this way"

            Some things change you forever and you can never go back. 28 years later and the bitter sting of what occurred that February night lingers in my dreams. I used to resent going on and rising above it all. I often felt as if my healing was a betrayal of his actions. I was a turncoat unable to follow through and repeat the harm he had done. This in no way was for lack of trying. Any guilt that still lingers is covered by a peace that I have found. I have moved past the way things turned out to be. For years it haunted me, every moment a constant reminder that I had failed him. I would ruminate in the stench of it all. Slowly but surely, time became a blessing with the curse. No matter how I tried to hold on to the pain and the resentment, it eventually started to disappear like that train fading in the distance. I didn't want it to go, it was all I had left of him. Eventually, I had to decide whether to get on with living or get on with dying. I knew I could not go on hiding from all the world. Occasionally, I still question my choice.

            I am no longer blinded to that flour mill. It never fails to act like a giant concrete gravestone, standing in the centre of town, a marker of the life I have been forced to live and the one I had little choice but to leave behind me. Every time I pass it, or see it rising in the distance, it has been a constant reminder of how death surrounds me. Finally, the town has abandoned it to progress. The old mill has been purchased and will be converted into a brewery. Ironically, the ground upon which he landed will now produce the beer that made his life somewhat easier while he was here. I cannot imagine driving past the spot and not seeing it there. The great monument I was blind to that night, will now be the final rubble, so soon to be dead and gone. I will not miss it whatsoever.

            The demon which had possessed me for so many years has been caged and returned to where from which it came. I have gone on in life without him in it, but he is constantly part of my being. The lessons I have learned from his departure have graced me with a fortitude I never would have imagined I could own. Everything I am as a person is measured through this milestone. Every moment, every action I take is a consequence from both our actions. As the heavy weight of the experience lifted ever so slightly from me, I made myself a promise. I swore to him, and to God, and to anything ethereal that would listen, that I would secure positives from this event. I would ensure that his death had purpose, if only for myself. The ripple effect has been as mighty as the leap I made into safety that night and the jump that took him away.   

"I've never been the kind

To ever let my feelings show

And I thought that bein' strong meant

Never losin' your self-control

But I'm just drunk enough

To let go of my pain

To hell with my pride

Let it fall like rain

From my eyes

Tonight I wanna cry"

(Tonight I Wanna Cry, Keith Urban 2007)

 

            When you forgive yourself, you start to heal. When you let go, you start to grow. Calamity may be a part of living, but how you respond to it will not only define your character but also the caliber of your life. You can choose to remain in your sadness or you can choose to rise above it. You can decide to construct positives from your experience. Failure can be a stepping stone. The mistakes you have made can be the building blocks that take you higher. This does not always erase any resulting bitterness or tragedy. Healing from your past does not negate that past. Do not dwell on what went so wrong, focus instead on how to make things better.
            Our energies are better spent looking for hope rather than focusing on defeat. The challenges you face in your life are an invitation to change, to awaken, to be the person that you want to be. If you make the decision to bend with the wind. it can never break you. Instead of trying to forget what has happened to you, use it. This balance will allow you to move forward. How does the worst thing that has ever happened to you turn into the best thing that has ever happened to you? Make it so.

 

Sources

http://www.almanac.com/weather/history/ON/Strathroy/1995-02-13

http://www.strathroyagedispatch.com/2011/12/13/good-news-bad-news-for-downtown-businesses

 

 

Photo

http://www.strathroyagedispatch.com/2011/12/13/good-news-bad-news-for-downtown-businesses