My Father

I remember his scowl the most. It seemed a permanent fixture on his face. His sitting back in his lazy boy with his feet up scowling at the tv,  at my mother or at one of us.  

    

I remember how his feet smelled badly, and how when he knew it bothered you he’d wriggle and rub them together and laugh at your displeasure. 

I remember how Christmas was an excuse for him to drink early, putting vodka in his orange or tomato juice. I remember how he scoffed at every Christmas present my mother bought him saying that she only bought him tools and such so that he’d work around the house.

I remember his little contemptuous laugh whenever he upset one of us, and the smirk that said how much he enjoyed the power he held over you, over me. I remember his rage when I gave him back something of his own medicine, how he dragged me by my hair to throw me out the door to punish me, to get rid of me like he always said he would 

I don’t remember what I said to him, just his reaction.  

But I remember how hard  I fought back. 

A Forest

A forest cares for every individual tree, with the big and healthy trees giving sustenance  to the weak via the mycelium system that connects all organic life.  When all trees are healthy each tree then becomes equally responsible to the forest, and everyone thrives.

In our human society those with more have had very little responsibility towards those beneath them but those with less are expected to keep giving their  allegiance and gratitude to those above them for what they provide, even if what is given isn’t sustaining.

Is it any wonder our systems are  crumbling and everyone is struggling.

To those with more privilage than I

Think of me as having been born with a handicap. I won’t bore you with the violins, but the odds have never been in my favour; I was never expected to win; I was expected to support. 
I can only tell you that I believe I am experiencing the disproportionate effects of what my world expects of me to what I can expect from it; and I’m not sure how much longer I can carry that burden.  
I am the end of my line. 

The prodigy of my parent’s directionalless struggle ends with me. 
I have failed; as was expected. 

Rules

I was told to obey my parents; listen to my teachers; obey my employers; agree with my
betters; follow all the rules regardless of whether or not I had anything to do with their creation, regardless of whether or not they served me. Accepting that others, mostly those who demanded that I obey were served more by my compliance. 

What I had to gain was the food in my belly and the roof over my head; that I didn’t get punished; didn’t get a fail; didn’t lose my job; wasn’t ostracized by my family or community, or judged as someone who thought only of myself…

Oh wait, maybe I haven't been that good at following the rules.

. 

Nature

I'm at home here.

Here where the light glows green though leaves that dance with the slightest breeze,
changing patterns a thousand times as the sun travels through the day.

Where the fire's smoke finds the quickest path through the towering maple and spruce, wrapping itself around the moss covered branches like an attentive lover,

making its way to the open sky and to all that is God.

I belong here. 

Here where the sun caresses my skin with its warmth and the mosquito bites without discrimination or judgement.

I am a part of it all; intertwined, interconnected;

my interaction just as appropriate and welcome as a gust of wind,
or a spray of sparks, 

flying up into the night sky.

Adaptation

I am not like you.
I do not fit in your world.
My life has shaped me into something different than what you expect,
than what you allow.

I am a perfect reflection of the life I’ve lived.
I have learned many things that you will never know unless you can see me as someone who has gained wisdom from their experiences.

I am capable of reason, intelligent thought,
and yes, even unselfish love;
even if I still have wounds that are in need of healing and care.

My injuries are those obtained from being told over and over again that I am not worthy,
that I cannot participate,
that my differences are not welcome in this world.
And my wellness has everything to do
with denying what I've been told.

Your insistence that I be like you to fit in
only adds to the injuries I need to heal from.

I do not need your sympathy;
I need your acceptance.
I need to be treated as a welcome part of the whole because of my differences, not despite them.
Letting me into your world doesn't count as a welcome
if I am the only one expected to change.

Dear America, Please Consider this

There are many things in this world that hold people down, but I think mostly it's the judgement of others, - more specifically, the judgement  that who we are and what we value is not important enough to be heard, that causes folks to feel the need to strike out and fight back.

When the world tells us that all our hard work  doesn’t count, that we don't deserve the same consideration as everyone else, we feel powerless.  We are unable to control our own fate, let alone contribute to the greater good, and our self-respect diminishes.  Our lives become a struggle, and we spend our time fighting in one way or another to survive.  We lack the resources to become the best we can  be, and it’s frustrating to say the least - like our hands have been tied behind our backs but we are still being judged by the same yardstick as those who are free.

I can empathize because I too feel that I have suffered the restrictions and inadequacies place upon me by the judgement of others.  I not only grew up poor but I am transgender and queer, and I live in a world where my differences have not ever been fully accepted by the status quo.

 ..I too have carried what I’ve perceived as an unjust burden, felt the frustration and anger  of “if only I was given a fair chance I could shine... “ And there have been many times in my life when fighting  back was the only way I could see to maintain my self respect.

 But now I know that fighting back is not the way.  It only makes others angry, and causes them to want to fight me to maintain their own self respect, and that doesn’t lead to anyone’s contentment.

… I can’t help but see the parallel between my individual life experience and what is happening in the world today.  … We can spend eternity, each taking turns fighting for our rights to matter - each of us vying  to gain control over our world; putting ourselves and our values first; climbing up that hill, only to eventually be tossed off by another…,  but there will never will be peace; there will always be someone wanting to gain back the control they lost and someone defending what they gained.

The way I see it, the only way to make America great again, …to make the world great is  to  begin by accepting each other’s differences. …To work together as if everyone mattered, as if doing so was in our own self interest, (because after all it is), and so finally once and for all, allowing everyone the opportunity to get on with being the best they can be and with creating a life they truly  can be happy living.

Sandpaper

Sometimes I think all my nerves endings  must be right on the surface
because I  feel the roughness of the world
like sandpaper rubbing against my skin.

The unwelcome of hurried lives,
the abrupt endings,
and  the sharpness of quick and thoughtless words,
scrape against me,
leaving cuts and scratches that I can't help but take personally. 

I run away and curl up in a protective ball to lick my wounds,
but  loneliness  draws me back out again.
I long for gentleness, for unhurried connection, 
for the slow caress  of attention,  
the  welcome  of thoughtful kindness, 
 and the warm softness of love.

Tired

Some days there just doesn't seem to be a point to any of it. I'm so tired of being different; tired of having  to explain myself. tired of having to ask for clarification or for special consideration, and  I'm tired of when I do ask, feeling like I'm asking too much.

I will never be, think, or see the  world like most people, and I'm tired of feeling  like there's something wrong with me because I don't, or because my healthy doesn't look like what others expect. I'm tired of having that difference judged as "still not well yet" because it doesn't look like the well of people who have lived totally different lives then mine. I'm tired of trying to live up to standards of thinking, seeing and doing that I will never be able to accomplish, and feeling like there's is something wrong with me because I don't. 

But what I'm most tired of, is being told that the reason I feel these things is because I have self confidence issues or don't know how to love myself, and if I didn't judged myself and others so harshly, I would feel loved and connected to all. 

How forgiveness has changed me

How forgiveness has change me

(As shared as a personal reflection on the Febuary 14th service at the first Unitarian Church of Victoria)

I have never hidden the fact that I grew up in less than ideal circumstances, and that I’ve had a lot of baggage and interpersonal relationship problems that I’ve had to work though, …am still working though, because of that experience. Part of my healing process was to extricated  myself from blame.  Blaming oneself is common to those who have suffered abuse, so I had to start with the work of recognizing where the responsibility for my childhood experiences lay to begin with. Without going into details, the end result was that I didn’t speak with my father for a very long time, and I thought that I would never speak to him again.

In March, 2013, I got a phone call from my brother, telling me that our father was in the hospital, that a neighbour had found him lying unconscious next to his car, surrounded by the groceries he had just brought home, …and that he had been diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer. 

Have you ever been convinced that you'd never forgive someone, and then when you did, you found  it was just the thing you needed to do?  ...It was a difficult decision to make, but I finally decided to phone my father. …The first words I remember him saying were: "When are you coming home?"

At first I thought he was confused, and I explained to him that I was home, here, in Victoria, but then I realized what he was asking me, and I knew then that everything had changed between us. He was old and sick, and he was the one who was vulnerable now. He was asking me to come home to see him before he died, and at that very moment I forgave him. 

I flew out east and went to see him in the hospital in Halifax - spent two weeks there. At first it all seemed so anti-climatic after the revelation I had while speaking to him on the phone.  There was no moment of reconciliation or apology, no outpouring of regret; only one small statement that he had offered two or three times, seemingly out of the blue; “as long as you are happy” he said, which I later realized was his way of telling me that he accepted my queer lifestyle.

 

This was an incredible gift in itself, as I never expected anything like that from him … but the best gift of all didn’t appear until after he had died. I began to  remember the times that he and I had gone fishing, and berry picking together,  ...how he had taught me how to bait a hook, how to light a campfire, and where to find Mayflowers in the spring. 

These are precious memories for me, and I believe my love of nature began there.  ... Not everything was bad while I was growing up, but the bad had covered up what good there was, and made it inaccessible. 

In forgiving my father I got those good memories back along with the realization of how significant they were in my life. Until then, I thought forgiveness was just something that you gave to someone else.  Little did I know how personally transforming and healing it could be.  I hope he got something from it, as well. 

Where has forgiveness taken you?