Guyland: A Review

After much delay, I have finally decided to read Michael Kimmel's book Guyland: The Perilous World Where Boys Become Men. My reluctance to pick it up before now was predicated on the fact that masculinity and I are not yet completely at peace with one another. We have a tortured, confused relationship, a contradictory allegiance that on one hand sometimes makes me want to defend the honor of highly irresponsible, often vile men when they are being rightly criticized in Feminist spaces, and one where I find this same conduct deeply reprehensible. My opinions on the subject are strong and pungent, and not apathetic in the least.

As I've made my way through the book, I find myself wishing my own father would read it. Maybe he'd understand the hell that I went through earlier in life. Maybe he'd understand the behavior of my male peers as well, who in all fairness went through their own private, albeit never verbalized time in Hades. He might even be capable of recognizing why I kept my distance from them. Perhaps it'd even give him permission to explore certain parts of his own masculinity currently roped off as forbidden. I know for a fact that he wouldn't, of course, but still I wish.

The book has been a painful read. Much of what Kimmel speaks about cuts right to the bone. I find myself frequently wincing internally as I read, and after particularly intense paragraphs I find I have to set it down and process. The sections which speak about the ways young men have learned to mask their very human emotional responses by adopting defensive poses like cockiness, bravado, and swagger are the most distressing. To me, nothing is as discomforting as seeing another man struggle to conceal his anxieties and his deep seeded fears, regardless of what he's dealing with or how he chooses to do it. My own upbringing is to blame.

Frequent readers may recognize that I talk about my father quite a bit. The reason for this is that I associate him in my mind with a particular version of masculinity that I understood far too well and wanted no part of whatsoever. I was expected to unquestioningly embrace it, to put it on and wear it like a second skin, without the need to examine it first; one was never instructed to check it for rips and tears, to discern whether it was sensible or airtight. I unequivocally refused. My father never understood why, even, ironically enough, as he blocked out his own discomfort while clothing himself in a one-size-fits all garment that, contrary to the advertising, suits absolutely no one.

The motif of father, in all sorts of contexts has surfaced a good bit during therapy, so I find it weighing on my mind a good bit. I doubt this is an uncommon experience for many people. My father played a huge role in my life, but I never realized how much until I began to examine long repressed parts of myself. His influence as teacher of how to be a man was pervasive and set the tone for how I felt about myself going forward. In particular, I've been recently contemplating and reclaiming feelings and emotions which were taboo to display openly and publicly. I probably saw Dad cry all of one time in my entire life. It was an eerie experience, and one that left me feeling tremendously out of sorts for a while afterward.

I myself was forcibly conditioned to not shed tears for any reason and for a long time I never did. Thankfully, I have found myself able to cry more easily, and I have eagerly embraced the new freedom to let out my feelings through extremely efficient means. I was always a sensitive kid, and I think of all the energy I expended, all the creative ways I formulated to keeping myself from tearing up. Dialing down one's compassion, in ways just like this are what young men do to seem hyper-masculine and tough. The tragedy of such actions is not lost on me. If they could only channel and direct this energy in ways that build up, rather than obscure or tear down, then many of the problems this attitude creates would not exist. The problems with humanity that I have observed are not that we are unmotivated and driven to succeed, but that we pick the wrong things to edify.

My reading of the text does provide an unexpected result: sympathy. I find myself feeling pity for these young men, which is a huge step for me. They have been thoroughly warped by a culture which does not adequately educate them about how to be self-aware and introspective. If the men who I associate as obnoxious, embarrassing, and borderline criminal are seeking anything in all their cocksure strutting and boorish behavior, they are desperately chasing after a stable means of feeling connected as a part of something larger than themselves. Though they cannot or will not vocalize it, they seek a source of true wisdom and an ability to have faith in something solid all the way through.

A solution is possible, of course. In Quaker terms, we'd call it being "tender". Tenderness is the ability and willingness to be vulnerable for the sake of greater healing, not just within the self, but within the whole. While these young men might individually pursue this if given the chance, collectively they'd rather follow the pack out of the fear of sticking out or seeming less-than-manly in the eyes of other men. Masculinity as currently defined is about blending in to avoid being put in one's place by someone else. It reminds me a bit about the famous description of the British class system. Every man knows his place, and there is always someone there to remind him of it, should he forget.

The largest challenge of all is conquering the very real fear of men who are simply afraid to "go there", paranoid they might emote even the faintest whiff of being unmanly. Tragically, many men drift for years, without a rudder or a compass, adopting one artificial posture after another. Acting otherwise is often associated with effeminacy, anathema to Guy Code, as Kimmel puts it.

Upon reading this book, I've begun to strip away the layers of hostility and bitter condemnation I've built up over the years. It is a complete reversal of sorts for me to see the sort of trolls who send grammatically challenged hate mail or post deliberately provocative invective in comment threads as damaged, confused, and lost. Anyone who presents himself as angry and obnoxious does not exactly inspire easy sympathy in others. I still find it a severe challenge to restructure my own attitudes, based as they are in old hurts and old wounds yet to close. But my faith tells me that if I don't, then true forgiveness can never be achieved, within myself and within the larger world. No one promised that the task was supposed to be easy.

It would take no effort at all for me to fall back into my old ways, eager and willing to lash out at the men we call dude bros, frat boys, lads, or yobs. I have mentioned before that anger comes from a place of pain. From whence this does this feeling of brokenness stems? Here might be one answer. Masculinity is a fragile thing, a flimsy construct that slides by on a steady stream of glossy lies. Its adherents are themselves the walking wounded.

That this entire systemic framework can be brought to its knees by the mere thought of real equality should give us all great comfort. Indeed, this is what keeps me motivated to add my voice to the other eloquent voices whose ultimate goal is the same as my own. And when that moment comes, as I know it will, the true believers in a saccharine unreality will have to go somewhere. They'll have to learn the truth, which, as we are taught, will set us all free. So let us keep speaking truth, sisters and brothers.

Need-Based Need

"You must be
terribly lonely."

partially
a projection,

partially
the truth.

I never asked
to have half

of the reasons why

isolation must be the
minority way

similar toxins
needs
desires

Did we pick the same
wound or the same salve?

We descend into them
to heal the surface,
but not the root.

Movin' On Up

The past several days I've been musing on the chosen strategies employed by the privileged and the well-educated to solve societal problems. In particular, I've been contemplating the idea of poverty. As is typical for me, I've been seeking to find intersections and similarities between seemingly divergent topics, all in the hopes of eliminating confusion among everyone. Sometimes we disagree because we inadvertently work at cross-purposes to each other. The anecdote to follow illustrates how social class muddies the waters quite considerably, and how in the process we often find ourselves talking past one another. I've found this exercise personally helpful in many instances, and I tell it now in the hopes that readers might feel the same.

Here, a story from my own life. It illustrates how the same seemingly straightforward matter can be perceived in completely different ways.

My father grew up very poor. Both of his parents were undereducated, possessing perhaps an eighth grade education between the two of them. Like most residents of the small Southern town of his birth, they worked their entire lives in a textile mill. The house where my father grew up was small, especially for modern standards. In my mind's eye, I can see it now from visits there during my childhood. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, a living room, and a small screened in porch. That was about it. The residence sat in the center of a few acres of land, well out in the country. By the time I was born, others had bought up acreage around my grandfather's plot and constructed homes, but when my father was growing up, most of what surrounded him was woods. I'm sure that must have made him feel even more isolated.

Dad saw no virtue in having not much money or in living simply. So far as he was concerned, living simply was a symbol of poverty. Instead, he wanted to be like the wealthy kids who lived in town. He was ashamed of his own parents, particularly in their general ignorance about the greater world and in their country ways. He was so ashamed, in fact, that he never invited friends or girlfriends to the house. Though I've never asked him specifically how he managed it, I suppose he fabricated a story that implied he was solidly middle class. And, moreover, he wanted to the look the part. In his childhood, he had to make do with hand-me-down clothing or garments purchased at thrift stores. As a result, while in high school, he took a job at a grocery store, where he worked hard and saved every penny he earned. With his savings he purchased expensive clothes. Aspiring, as he did, to have money someday, this must have been a serious step towards attempting to fit in and being taken seriously.

My story is quite a bit different. When I was in high school, I could have been perfectly content to shop at a thrift store for all of my clothes. Though I never would never have put it in those terms at the time, this was my way of appealing to social justice. And, though I would have certainly never put it in those terms at the time, it was also my observance of simplicity. Dad never understood. To him, shopping at a thrift store was something one did out of necessity when money was scarce. So, despite my protests, I was marched down to a department store, whereupon a full year's worth of moderately priced, but still brand new clothes were purchased for me.

I'm not sure he ever quite got that to me, wearing the clothes found in such places implied (to me, at least) that I was the sort of person likely to join a fraternity at a state school a few year's hence. But I do recognize now that he meant well. He just didn't want me to seem as though I was poor and uneducated. His upbringing produced a decided chip on the shoulder, one that motivated him to succeed, which was itself an attempt to be perceived as more than just some country bumpkin from the middle of nowhere. He wanted me to be seen as authoritative and integral to the discussion, not some small town rube spouting down home colloquialisms.

I think it's a symptom of our own privilege that we have the ability to point back to past ways and consider them better than modern times. To me, my father's perspective serves as a needed contrast. He enjoys air conditioning and makes no bones about it, since he grew up without it. He dislikes black and white movies, regardless of how artfully rendered they may be, because it reminds him of how he had to make do with a tiny black and white television, when others had the money to afford color sets. He feels no compulsion to farm or to put much effort into a garden, since that was precisely how his family augmented their own diet, being that they had no other choice.

He shops at Walmart without guilt because he remembers what it's like to have to buy on a tight budget and, if confronted about unfair labor practices in Third World country, he just shrugs his shoulders, replying that at least they have higher paying jobs now. His own parents, my Grandparents, were originally poor yeoman farmers, but some wealthy plutocrat, probably from the North, came down and started a mill. The jobs provided were, at least to the poor whites who took them, much superior than having to worry about crop failures or spending hours a day doing backbreaking labor. Subsistence farming is not easy, particularly in the rocky soil of the hill country, which is hardly the most fertile. It didn't take much coaxing to put down a plow or to have a stable, albeit meager paycheck that didn't depend on intangibles upon which they had no control.

Returning to my father's story, like many who grew up without, money provides status. It is a confirmation of social mobility, one accomplished with a tremendous amount of hard work. In many ways, I'm proud of him for reaching his goal. He is the walking personification of the American Dream. Yet, he and I will never see eye to eye about my desire to seek fairness and equality by refusing to participate in consumer culture. He views nothing intrinsically wrong with buying things, per se, provided he can afford them. As far as he's concerned, he's worked hard for what he has, and every purchase gives him a sense of satisfaction that he's made it. He's moved on up to the East Side and finally got a piece of the pie.

And so the question remains, how do we reconcile our belief that we ought to make do with as little as we can with the reality that others would gladly change places with us in a heartbeat? I find it bordering on colonialism, perhaps even the White Man's Burden itself to imply that I've got the answer. If economic equality is what we seek, we're going to have to take into account class and class distinctions, also. It's important that we consider other metrics and other broad avenues of discrimination, but one simply cannot overlook class, which might very well be the broadest delineation of all.

Quote of the Week

"You just keep thinking, Butch. That's what your good at."- Robert Redford as The Sundance Kid in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

Saturday Video

From the Archives

I'm going to be busy during the day, so please accept this video from the archives instead. It is one of my most favorite songs of all time.



one, two, three
If you close the door
the night could last forever
Leave the sunshine out
and say hello to never

All the people are dancing
and they're having such fun
I wish it could happen to me

But if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again

If you close the door
the night could last forever
Leave the wine-glass out
and drink a toast to never

Oh, someday I know
someone will look into my eyes
And say hello
you're my very special one

But if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again

Dark party bars, shiny Cadillac cars
and the people on subways and trains
Looking gray in the rain, as they stand disarrayed
oh, but people look well in the dark

And if you close the door
the night could last forever
Leave the sunshine out
and say hello to never

All the people are dancing
and they're having such fun
I wish it could happen to me

Cause if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again
I'd never have to see the day again, once more
I'd never have to see the day again

Addressing the Poisonous Root of Bitterness

I have written openly about my Christ-centered faith on numerous occasions. I rediscovered it relatively recently after rejecting it out of hand earlier in life. The best way to describe the experience is that, for whatever reason or another, it found me, rather than the other way around. A belief in a higher power keeps me mentally supple and not fixated on the superficial. My faith points me to the way to live in peace among other people, and also within myself. So, when I observe yet again how easy it is for the mere mention of Jesus or God to provoke a nasty, negative response in many, I feel tremendously sad.

Organized religion has, I acknowledge, created tremendous damage for many. On the other hand, however, it seems as though certain people hold fast to a stage of processing pain and loss that stays resolutely stuck in scathing rejection. Even worse, they never seem to move beyond it. One wonders why the progression of time would not give a person the ability to reach a sense of resolution within themselves, responding to all notions of religion with which they passionately disagree with a mere shrug of the shoulders. Those who consider themselves staunchly opposed to religion or even spirituality certainly do spend a good bit of time with it on the brain. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

A right-wing strain of Christianity advances the notion that Christianity is under attack from secular fundamentalists, and I simply don't see it this way at all. There are any number of well-documented instances that could have easily led anyone question or reject their faith wholesale. The continuing saga of sexual abuse of children by priests in the Roman Catholic Church is one of these. Growing up in a faith, regardless of what it was, that severely limited or restricted personal freedom for the sake of authoritarian control has also led to quite understandable feelings of bitterness and anger among those who have left it behind. As liberals, we value our own right to individual expression, and for good reason. But not everyone who wishes to trash religion has had these experiences. It deeply troubles me to observe how Christianity and Christians are painted with the broadest and most caustic of brushes. In response, I spend much of my energy drawing contrasts between the liberal faith I believe in and the opposite extreme which I reject as fervently as they do.

In these stressful times, I feel as though I'm on the stand, the chief witness for the defense in a particularly intense, contested court case. As I sit, I am given the third degree by a hostile, combative prosecuting attorney. The lawyer tries every trick in the book to get me to incriminate myself or to concede that what I believe is suspect or irrational. The prosecutor pulls out random verses from Scripture that could, at face value, seem contradictory without ample interpretation and context. The intent of this exercise is to try to invalidate the entire Bible by casting doubt on the entire book itself, making the assumption that if one verse rings false in some way, then the full text has no veracity and authority whatsoever. In deeper irony than that, I'm reminded of all the times where the Pharisees tried to trap Jesus either to make him incriminate himself or to cast doubt upon the validity of his teachings.

They came to him and said, "Teacher, we know you are a man of integrity. You aren't swayed by men, because you pay no attention to who they are; but you teach the way of God in accordance with the truth. Is it right to pay taxes to Caesar or not? Should we pay them, or shouldn't we?"

Jesus saw through their hypocrisy and said, "Why are you trying to trap me? Show me a Roman coin, and I'll tell you." They brought the coin, and he asked them, "Whose portrait is this? And whose inscription?" "Caesar's," they replied.

Then Jesus said to them, "Give to Caesar what is Caesar's and to God what is God's." And they were amazed at him.

This passage has had many interpretations over the years. It has been used, variously, to justify not paying taxes that benefit war, to articulate a need to keep church and state fully separate, as a command to pay taxes that support war, a commandment to not pay taxes that support war, a warning that involving oneself too actively in the inner workings of the state is dangerous, and an encouragement to devote oneself more fully to God. It is also worth pointing out that some believe Jesus' answer was just a cleverly vague answer to a question which would have incriminated him regardless of whether he answered yes or no. Depending on how you see it, Jesus is either a pacifist war resister, a Libertarian, a card-carrying ACLU member, or a believer in law and order.

It is often difficult to pigeonhole precisely who Jesus was or was not. He was an anomaly in his own time. When any group or any person claims to know for certain that their interpretation of his teachings ought to be perceived as the only valid one, I for one don't buy it. Many act as though a carpenter from Nazareth is a successful business model or a commodity with exclusive licensing rights. Jesus™ is not for sale, but this doesn't stop some people from thinking that they are the sole proprietary owner and that all rights are reserved to them. To them, no use of the original text/leader is allowed without the expressed written consent of their particular group or faction. I can understand why conduct like that could harden hearts and scare people away in droves. But as for me, if I share my faith with others, and perhaps even a Bible verse or two, the intent is not to win converts, but to provide food for thought. In my own way, I might be capable of sharing wisdom with other people in the form of a source they might not have otherwise ever considered. There's a lot of good stuff in that old book.

I chose to include the Biblical passage above to underscore how so many peoples' spleen and bile is being channeled in an entirely wrong direction. Jesus is not the enemy and never will be. If he were alive now, I firmly believe, he would not be a member of any existing movement, faith group, or organization. Based on how I read his ministry, he would be much more inclined to be out on the ground among those who needed his guidance and assistance most. Jesus would not seek to shore up his power base by advancing any perversion of his own philosophy and teachings, no matter how benign. I let no one off the hook by saying this, since we all get it wrong sometimes to one degree or another. But if we can acknowledge our imperfections and start again from a place of tenderness and compassion, then we are doing all God asks of us.

My primary concern is that in this day and age, it seems like people want to build their own Two Minutes' Hate. I suppose it speaks to our own inward dissatisfaction that we want to vent our frustration by convenient means. It doesn't matter if you're a Tea Party member or an infamous internet troll. In this situation, if people must be upset then I hope they'd instead consider being mad at the humans who have tainted and otherwise manipulated a message of love and compassion for their own ends. If we must think in terms of enemies and allies, one hopes that we'd be capable of knowing how to separate the two. Any system devised by human hands is capable of being easily corruptible and in so doing drifting away from its core message. Perhaps our first step ought to be recognizing that we've set the bar as highly for other people as we have for ourselves. And in response, we can embrace an attitude of cynicism, thinking the task too arduous and the terrain too rugged, or we can recognize that mistakes are inevitable, while knowing that course corrections will be necessary from time to time.

When systemic injustices are perpetuated, not swiftly corrected (or corrected at all), condoned, allowed to ferment, and intensified when other unchallenged injustices are layered on top, then problems become massive. And that which is destructive to faith groups is also destructive to we ourselves. We can cover up problems we've encountered or delay dealing with them for a long time, even years. It should be common sense to know that personal issues can only be repressed up to a point until they begin to eat us alive. A much better solution, in my opinion, would be to bring them forth into the Light whereby we can initiate the work necessary for healing to begin. If we do not, we'll be looking for one scapegoat after another, with no end in sight.

Work at living in peace with everyone, and work at living a holy life, for those who are not holy will not see the Lord. Look after each other so that none of you fails to receive the grace of God. Watch out that no poisonous root of bitterness grows up to trouble you, corrupting many.

For those uncomfortable with the God talk, holy could mean "that which makes you whole." My hope is that the message is clear enough. The poisonous root of bitterness troubles many, but we have a remedy close at hand. I pray we set aside the poisonous aspects of ourselves, which are more damaging to us than they are to any target we may seek out. Holding grudges for any reason consumes energy which could be used for better things. We may reject the status quo with impulsive cockiness and provocative behavior, but we're really acting just like everyone else. Capitalism, in particular, has discovered how to cater to this compulsion. We have a million avenues available for us to be angry, but real rebellion is finding peace of mind and with it serenity. The most virulent toxin ever created is produced within ourselves, not projected onto someone or something else.

Best Days

*Please pardon the wild hair.



Bow Bells say goodbye to the last train
Over the river they all go again
Out into leafy nowhere
Hope someone's waiting out there
For them

Cabbie has his mind on a fare to the sun
He works nights but it's not much fun
Picks up the London yo-yo's
All on their own down Soho
Take me home

Other people wouldn't like to hear you
If you said
That these are the best days
Of our lives

Other people turn around and laugh at you
If you said
That these are the best days
Of our lives

Trellick Tower's been calling
I know she'll leave me in the morning
In hotel cells listening to dial tones

Remote controls and cable moans
In his drink he's talking
Gets disconnected sleepwalking back home

Other people wouldn't like to hear you
If you said
That these are the best days
Of our lives

Other people turn around and laugh at you
If you said
That these are the best days
Of our lives


Other people break into a cold sweat
If you said
That these are the best days
Of their lives

And other people turn around and laugh at you
If you said
That these are the best days
Of our lives
Of our lives

On a Busy Day, A Poetic Offering

Feminist
ain’t something
to pretend to be
unless you are.

and I am.

It ain’t no
Fashion Statement
if in fact,
the afflicted aren’t
Enthralled with its novelty

and I for one
am no fan of identities
with price tags
and sell by dates

If you really are
Feminist
you might start out
wishing that part of you

had a shelf life
shorter than milk

to be poured away
when it
became too hazardous

to consume.

Damage Has Consequences

I am and have always been a vocal proponent of therapy, medication, and introspection. All three in tandem have proven to be invaluable to my own understanding of self, as well as an effective treatment plan. I am not the only person who has reaped great benefit from them, too. Recent developments, however, have given me a greater understanding of the limitations of each of these methods of attaining mental health. By this I mean that a friend recently pointed out once again my infamous difficulty in setting adequate boundaries for myself and alongside it, unintentionally exhausting people with my need to constantly reach out.

I can point the finger of blame squarely at childhood trauma for both, but regardless of the cause, I am left with the aftermath. Though I may not have caused either of these things, I have had nonetheless to contend with the negative consequences. For a long while, this was a reliable source of anger, renewed afresh when I’d receive the latest, politely worded plea for space which confirmed that I was calling, texting, or e-mailing too frequently, despite my best intentions to the contrary. I don't want to think of any process towards greater health as an exercise in futility, but being reminded again of the depths of the challenge reminds me how much farther I have to go.

The violence so dominant in this society could find any number of apologists if personal willpower and motivation alone would undo the damage done. Someone could say, for example, The battered girlfriend can always heal herself psychologically with enough exertion and devotion to getting better. Physical therapy can do wonders for people with physical injuries, and mental therapy can accomplish the same, they'd say. However, this is a fatuous comparison that insists a victim ought to be the sole person who is obligated to pick up the pieces. In this scenario, not only should this not have to be her responsibility, sometimes violence is so destructive that one never fully recovers from it. If our capacity to destroy was equal to our capacity to heal, then the argument might hold water. Alas, it is not.

The physical scars may heal, leaving behind a few slight traces, but things will never truly be the same again. This is not meant to discourage those in search of help and healing, but rather a reminder that our bodies and our minds are not indestructible. For example, I was in a car accident in my late teens whereby the deflation of an airbag dislocated my left thumb. I may have built the strength of the joint back over time, but it has never been the same since. Its range of motion is only half what it used to be, and it bends stiffly and woodenly towards my palm. Even surgery won't restore it to complete functionality.

What I do in therapy every session is engage in a process of desensitizing myself to situations where I encounter men while out and about otherwise living my life. As one might imagine, I have plenty of opportunities to feel uncomfortable all the time. Bit by bit, one exhausting baby step after another, I press on. If I were not committed to this as I am, my numerous fears and reservations would have me isolate myself as a means of protection, such as I have done for years. It’s not fair on two levels, particularly to men who never did anything themselves to make me fearful of them. When I am unable to rationally distinguish between friend or foe, I shortchange more than just myself.

One of the reasons I became a pacifist and Quaker was my realization that violence and brutality do not stop at the fringes of a battle in some foreign land. It is a cliche by now to state that all too many inner city neighborhoods have become war zones, and we need only look at our neighbor to the south, Mexico, to see a periodic series of bloody skirmishes raging for control of the drug trade. Some in our society work jobs which place them in constant contact with violence. This is reflected in the militaristic nature of the very names themselves: police officer, firefighter, paramedic. People are said to battle anything from the temptation to overeat to some serious disease like cancer. Those who unfortunately succumb to said disease after a lengthy illness are said to have "lost their battle".

In Feminist circles, we are cautious not to overuse the phrase “rape”, in the hopes of preserving the awful power that word connotes. Sometimes I wonder if we’re fighting a losing battle (see, here I go again!) because once the term was far more pejorative and offensive than it is now. For example, the mid-sixties art film, The Knack... and How to Get It features an extended sequence wherein a young woman deliberately overuses that particular word for pure shock value alone. By its conclusion she uses it as a rough synonym to the act of sexual intercourse itself, so as to bolster the self-esteem of a shy man she fancies, one who never had much luck with woman. To use the word as a method of flirtation still has the power to shock, but with the passage of time, the playful, cheeky quality of this application no longer applies. Rape is not a laughing matter, even one intended to be subversive.

As mammals with inordinately large brains, we sometimes overlook the primal and primeval aspects of ourselves, stuck as we are in our own cerebral cortex. But when we are engaged in violent acts or rather spurned to them, we are little more than animals reacting impulsively. One of the blessings of being so self-aware is that we are capable of so much creativity and with a prodigious ability to invent things for the benefit of all, but the drawback is that we are acutely aware of loss, regardless of how it arrives. We have the terrifying capacity to step back from what we have destroyed and to take stock of it all. With that knowledge, we have the ability to know intrinsically how to keep ourselves healthy and functional. Though we may not literally have taken up arms and engaged an adversary in combat, each tragedy we observe makes an indelible mark. There is no antidote, nor any cure for any of this. The human body, to say nothing of the human psyche is not mean to be put through the wringer.

There's No Reflection Here at All

At the bottom there's a stir
And now the surface is a blur

Tell the truth like it's a joke
And don't fix the part that isn't broke

I know I'm just a memory
And I know that's how it's got to be

So tell the mirror on the wall
"Mirror, mirror on the wall;
There's no reflection here at all"

Mirror, mirror on the wall
There's no reflection here at all.

I'm so tired that I can't sleep
The secrets that my secrets keep
Down the stairway to the church

Blackbirds hanging in the lurch
I don't want to see my name in stone

I tied a ribbon round a bone
Took a ride in a yellow car
And bought myself an old guitar

Things ain't what they used to be
I've gotta devil after me

Tell the mirror on the wall
Mirror mirror on the wall

There's no reflection here at all
Mirror, mirror on the wall

There's no reflection here at all.
Mirror, mirror on the wall
There's no reflection here at all.

You're looking high, you're looking low
You've got something on your mind

Did someone give you bad directions?
Were you in the wrong place at the wrong time?
They found a body in the river

They found a note left in the sand
"Leave my worries to the water
And leave my body to the land"

Quote of the Week

“To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be happy, one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness. I hope you're writing this down.”- Diane Keaton in Love and Death.

A Personal Note

Dear Readers,

I've never tried hide the fact that I suffer from bipolar disorder. In fact, I've been very open about it in the hopes that others suffering silently with the disease might be inclined to seek treatment. The stigma of mental illness, though lessened significantly compared to that of an earlier age, is still unfortunately present among far too many. This is why I made up my mind some years ago to not hide my condition and to use my gifts as a writer to best articulate the daily struggles of life with a chronic illness. So, once more, I write in this space and by this method I hope to inform and perhaps even to educate, using myself as a model.

One never knows when and why another episode will strike. I have been lucky to have gone two years without a period of either mania or depression, but apparently my luck has now run out. Earlier in the week, I began to notice the beginning symptoms of depression. For right now, the downturn has been treated with moderate success by increasing the dosage of a medication (Lithium) that I was already taking. Hopefully this will be sufficient to put me back to a stable state, or, at minimum, keep the depression from worsening, but there are few sure things in treating any disorder of the brain. The brain is a very complex, perplexing organ, one poorly understood by medicine, even now in the Twenty-First Century.

Depression slowly robs your body of its motivation and drive. If intense enough, it removes even your will to live. When I've been the most depressed, simply rising from my bed to make my way to the shower has been a struggle. The illness drains your body of strength, cruelly, sadistically, a little bit at a time. Fortunately, I am nowhere near that point now, else I'd be unable to write this out to you. Indeed, I may not reach a severe state this time around, but once you've had several of them in the course of one lifetime, there is a very real tendency to think, Oh-God-here-we-go-again.

Over the years, I've tried to understand why I have been tormented this way, and why this is apparently my fate. The best I can come up with now, nearly fifteen years into learning to live with bipolar, is that there simply aren't any answers. This doesn't satisfy my curiosity or my desire to know something, anything, but unlike in other stages of my life, I know I am not being punished for something I've done wrong. I believe in a loving God and I don't believe in mysterious forces that crave punitive means of retribution. Sometimes it is easy to be resentful of those who do not have these same limitations, or have never had to suffer as I have. Often I wonder what each of these episodes has to teach me, or if there is nothing to be gained or lost, merely endured.

Men are not supposed to be sickly and physically weak. And yet, as I look back on my life, I recognize that I have struggled with one major illness after another. There is no need to state all of them here, but I recognize that during the course of my childhood, into adolescence, and then into adulthood, I dealt with a variety of afflictions, most of which were purely genetic and inherited. Life has rarely been easy for me, and I state this not with self-pity, but in all honesty. I recognize that, for me at least, suffering produces wisdom and has a way of making one understand what truly matters, but neither would I ever go through what I have gone through for the sake of achieving the meaning of life itself. I may be stronger for what I have seen and experienced when stability is present, but I am rendered once again a shadow of myself when the illness strikes and strikes hard. Again, I hope this is not my fate, but one must prepare for the worst.

I will continue writing and posting here so long as I am able. As a stubborn person, I have no desire to sacrifice doing what I love based on the incessant demands of an old adversary. Yet, if I feel myself slipping into a major episode, putting new content up here will become more and more difficult. I'll certainly let everyone know well before that happens. Perhaps I have nothing to worry about, and if that's the case, and my condition is allayed by the measures already enacted, I will rejoice. You will be the first to know. But in the meantime, I felt a need to set this out there in case I am not myself in the near future.

Saturday Video

At The Zoo

Dedicated with love to all of the people I encounter in my life, even when we (loudly) disagree.



Someone told me
It's all happening at the zoo.

I do believe it,
I do believe it's true.

It's a light and tumble journey
From the East Side to the park;
Just a fine and fancy ramble
To the zoo.

But you can take the crosstown bus
If it's raining or it's cold,
And the animals will love it
If you do.

Somethin' tells me
It's all happening at the zoo.

I do believe it
I do believe it's true.

The monkeys stand for honesty,
Giraffes are insincere,
And the elephants are kindly but
They're dumb.

Orangutans are skeptical
Of changes in their cages,
And the zookeeper is very fond of rum.

Zebras are reactionaries,
Antelopes are missionaries,
Pigeons plot in secrecy,
And hamsters turn on frequently.

What a gas! You gotta come and see
At the zoo

Plain on the Outside, Fancy Underneath

On Tuesday afternoon, while returning from an errand, I stopped briefly at Union Station here in DC to get some lunch. Union Station has long been a busy depot by which rail and bus traffic arrives and departs, and it also serves as a rail and bus stop for area public transportation. With the passage of time, part of the inside of the terminal has been transformed into a shopping mall of sorts, which frequently satiates the boredom of tourists and passengers. Predictably, it also houses a Victoria’s Secret.

While walking by on my way from somewhere else, I noticed, much to my amazement, two plain dress women inside, apparently shopping for fancy underthings. They were plain Mennonites, which was confirmed by the bonnets they wore on their heads and their single-shade pocketless dresses. It was my understanding that, due to their religious beliefs, anything ornate or showy was not allowed, yet both of these women clutched in their hands what looked like several pairs of underwear and lingerie, evidently desiring to purchase them. Intrigued, I consulted a fellow Friend (Quaker) who keeps plain dress herself, in the hopes of getting some answers.

Her guess was that the women weren’t really supposed to be buying fancy undergarments. She informed me how in some Amish communities, even little things like hem length and width are dictated by community rules. This was interesting to me on many levels, especially when I recognized that a great diversity of views exist regarding plain dress. We seem to think that all plain people dress the same, and this simply isn’t the case. Each community dictates its own specific rules regarding manner of dress. My friend's community of plain people has a very different set of guidelines than other communities in the area.

But back to underwear. The Friend’s opinion was that it’s hard to enforce rules for clothing that can’t be seen, particularly intimate apparel. This is probably much of the appeal. Amish and plain Mennonites have their lives governed by a lot of rules, women even more so. That this might be their way to push back in rebellion against legalistic restrictions towards group conformity I found fascinating to contemplate. Perhaps it’s also a way to assert one’s individuality and in so doing buy something private, just for the self. The Friend added that she has read stories of women living in Afghanistan buying fancy shoes because everything else is supposed to be covered, feet being the one place on the body where they feel they can truly express themselves.

In some ways, though we consider ourselves individuals with individual rights, we’re also told precise ways to conform. Women certainly have their lives governed by lots of rules, a reality which manifests itself all over the place. Most women in this society may not have to obsess about the length of a hem, but they’ll certainly obsess about beauty products and the demands of seeming flawless. I daresay many reading this post probably own fancy undergarments, at least by plain standards.

Now for something completely different. If you, readers, could come up with your own form of rebellion against the exacting rules that take so much energy and time out of your life, what would it be? What would it look like?

I, Me, Me, Mine

All through the day
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine
All through the night
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine

Now they're frightened of leaving it
Everyone's weaving it
Coming on strong all the time
All through the day, I me mine

I me me mine, I me me mine
I me me mine, I me me mine

All I can hear
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine
Even those tears
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine

No one's frightened of playing it
Everyone's saying it
Flowing more freely than wine
All through the day, I me mine

I me me mine, I me me mine
I me me mine, I me me mine

All I can hear
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine
Even those tears
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine

No one's frightened of playing it
Everyone's saying it
Flowing more freely than wine
All through your life, I me mine

After a Time, All Losses are the Same

This past holiday weekend I visited two Civil War battlefields: Antietam and Gettysburg. While part of my motivation to go was purely the tourist's curiosity, I also went to remind myself of the multitude of ironies present in armed conflict. It does me well to contemplate what I believe to be the overall futility of warfare, regardless of the context. I certainly found plenty of both. I chose to go in part to celebrate Independence Day in a completely different sort of context. While I do appreciate the sacrifices made to establish a new nation and with it a groundbreaking experiment in Democracy, my pacifist beliefs often leave me deeply conflicted. To move nearly one hundred years forward in time from the Revolutionary War to the conflict that tore a hole in our nation's fabric seemed much more suited for the occasion.

To begin, when one first begins to survey the battlefield at Antietam, one comes across a Dunker church that was heavily damaged by artillery in the first day of the battle. The Dunkers were a sect of the German Baptist Brethren, so named because they practiced baptism by way of full immersion. They were also pacifists, an irony lost on no one, then as well as now. German Brethren also believed in the value of simplicity, which was confirmed when I walked inside the small structure, noticing the plain wooden pews constructed from rough planks and the complete lack of ornamentation present. What I saw wasn't all that different from a Friends meeting house of the period; I tried to imagine what it would have been like during worship with everyone present.

War is a strange thing. At both Gettysburg and Antietam, two to three days of heavy fighting transformed what had been a quiet, bucolic collection of farms to a muddy mess of bodies, shells, and destruction. A very brief, but very vicious period of trauma commenced, but then quickly concluded. The troops on both sides left, the dead were buried, local residents returned to rebuild, and over time the natural beauty of the place returned. I've always thought of this as particularly poignant. It seems obscene to me that humans would dare defile anything so pretty to air their petty grievances and bring them to some bloody closure. Yet, with enough time even our own selfish designs are replaced by those of Mother Nature's. We may think we assert control and dominance over all that we touch and see, this is proven to be wishful thinking to the highest degree. God's ways are not our own, as much as we might think to the contrary.

When one surveys the course of the battle, one finds that despite efforts to the contrary, winners and losers were often determined not by successful planning and execution, but by capitalizing on blunders made by the other side, or simply making less of them than one's enemy. Nothing could be more human, and by that I mean mortal. The technology of the time regarding instruments of death was the most advanced ever created, but human understanding of it was not. Few knew precisely what fresh hell would be wrought by rifles, cannon shot, and gunpowder. Few recognized how protracted a struggle would be this war and how much blood would be senselessly shed. Both sides went into battle believing in the moral rightness of its cause and how quickly the war would conclude. All were tragically mistaken.

One particular fact stuck out quite dramatically to me. At nearly thirty, I would have been one of the oldest on the battlefield. Most of the brutal fighting was done by men much younger than myself. When I think of how I perceive of men in their late teens and early twenties now, I find the revelation ever more revealing. When I was that age, I remember how much I had to learn about life and how this blameless deficiency influenced the decisions I made and my thought process. Perhaps this helps explain the undercurrents and momentum shifts that drive a battle. And, to this end, war is merely a kind of sport with deadly weapons. Though our lifespan stretches far beyond youth, if we follow sports, we focus so much attention upon those of a relatively narrow age range. When one takes into account the whole of one lifetime, athletes can perform at the heights of their talent a very limited number of years. This is true for the soldiers who toil in the trenches, experiencing horrors I for one cannot even begin to contemplate.

As a Friend mentioned to me, The Civil War rent apart not just a nation, but also Quakers as a whole. Our anti-war beliefs divided families, created its own variety of deep conflict, and scattered our numbers. Some went to battle anyway and found themselves unwelcome at their home meetings upon return. Some Friends were forced to relocate, heading farther into the Appalachian Mountains. There they settled among hill people who never embraced the plantation system and were too poor to own slaves, as a result feeling no allegiance to the Confederate cause. Some moved even farther west, eventually settling in Indiana. A group which embraced pacifism and spoke against the evils of bondage made understandably few in-roads in the Deep South, which is why membership in that part of the country is still relatively minimal. In many ways, we have still yet to recover.

It is good to be reminded of all of this from time to time. And on that subject, I have always admired Abraham Lincoln for the context of his Second Inaugural Address. Lincoln's response to what was only a few weeks away from the cessation of hostilities and a Union victory was not of jubilant celebration, but instead of sorrow. In a speech that read more like a sermon than an address, the President noted,

Neither party expected for the war, the magnitude, or the duration, which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with, or even before, the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God; and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has his own purposes.

To Lincoln, God can not be manipulated by human will to favor to one side or the other. He then invokes the Gospel of Matthew (I have used a more modern translation), by stating,

How horrible it will be for the world because it causes people to lose their faith. Situations that cause people to lose their faith will arise. How horrible it will be for the person who causes someone to lose his faith!

In this passage, Jesus is talking about the importance of preventing believers, particularly young believers from losing faith. There will always be evil in the world, but this doesn't mean that we should have the license to use this evil to divide each other for the sake of our own impure intentions. Young believers, be they young in age or young in allegiance are trusting of those who have been around longer. Thus, they are easy to manipulate for sordid ends. As I read this passage, I think about the politicians, the generals, and the ideologues who sold this war and convinced others to enlist into combat. We are to be like children in our ability to not harden our hearts and listen to the wisdom and guidance of the Spirit, but those who take advantage of this are harshly condemned.

"These little ones believe in me. It would be best for the person who causes one of them to lose faith to be drowned in the sea with a large stone hung around his neck."

For this reason, I oppose war. As much as we try to insulate ourselves from the harrowing realities of the battlefield, it never stops there. Or, as Catherine Davis so eloquently put it,

After a time, all losses are the same.
One more thing lost is one thing less to lose;
And we go stripped at last the way we came.

Though we shall probe, time and again, our shame,
Who lack the wit to keep or to refuse,
After a time, all losses are the same.

No wit, no luck can beat a losing game;
Good fortune is a reassuring ruse:
And we all go stripped the way we came.

Rage as we will for what we think to claim,
Nothing so much as this bare thought subdues:
After a time, all losses are the same.

The sense of treachery—the want, the blame—
Goes in the end, whether or not we choose,
And we go stripped at last the way we came.

So we, who would go raging, will go tame
When what we have can no longer use:
After a time, all losses are the same;

And we go stripped at last the way we came.

Antietam Battlefield Pictures

Here concludes the battlefield pictures. Antietam has a much different feel to it than Gettysburg. I have no opinions, nor words of wisdom to impart, so I suppose I will let the pictures speak for themselves.

Gettysburg Battlefield Photos

That such a gruesome battle could have been fought in such a gorgeous stretch of farmland is one of the many ironies of war. Three days of vicious combat reduced the land to an ugly mess, but in an reminder that Mother Nature trumps human actions, the site has reverted back its original beauty.

Quote of the Week

“Hypocrisy in anything whatever may deceive the cleverest and most penetrating man, but the least wide-awake of children recognizes it, and is revolted by it, however ingeniously it may be disguised”- Leo Tolstoy

Saturday Video

Notice

Posting will be light throughout the weekend into Monday. I will be visiting two Civil War battlefields, the evidence of which will be heavily documented with photos. Though I find war deplorable on all sorts of levels, I also find it perversely fascinating. On Independence Day weekend, I will be contemplating the senseless slaughter of combat and how it factors in to a huge celebration of the birth of a new nation, one which won its freedom by way of the musket and the sword.

While at both Gettysburg and Antietam, I will be sure to remember that what celebrates victory from defeat is often the side which makes the fewest mistakes, or capitalizes on the enemy's mistake at a crucial time. Human error and pure chance have as much to do with winning and losing as planning and execution. As much as we think we are in control, we are not.

He Thought of Cars

Moscow's still red
The young man's dead

Gone to heaven instead
The evening news

Says he was confused

The motorways will all merge soon
Lottery winner buys the moon

They've come to save us
The space invaders

He thought of cars
And where

Where to drive them
And who to drive them with

But there
There was no-one
No-one

There's panic at London Heathrow
Everybody wants to go

Up into the blue
But there's a ten year queue

Columbia is in top gear
It shouldn't snow this time of year

America's shot
She's gone and done the lot

He thought of planes
And where

Where to fly to
And who to fly there with

But there
There was no-one
No-one

He thought of cars
And where

Where to drive them
And who to drive them with
But there

There was no-one
No-one

Boundaries and Guidance within a Spiritual Life

As I have lived my life more in line with the Spirit, I have felt a greater communion with others. My anger and resentment has diminished noticeably. I find myself more comfortable around people who are superficially different from me. But I notice too that my emotional response to other people's pain and suffering is considerable. Where before I might have dismissed a tragedy with a shrug of the shoulders, I now often burst into tears. When I might have shrugged my shoulders and immediately entertained other topics, I mull and dwell on the places of pain we all experience. This places me well within the realm of the ambivalent.

To be sure, I do not question why I feel the way I feel now. This is, I firmly believe, a healthy state of mind and I have experienced a peace within myself long sought for and rarely achieved. Problems arise when how I feel differs greatly from others. If they embraced this same leaning, that would be one thing. Regrettably, this world is, as we know, often not a warm, compassionate, caring place. People learn to desensitize themselves to the negative for the sake of protection. In a big city, especially, people rarely talk to strangers and often assume that those who try to engage with them in conversation are potentially threats to their personal safety. While this might be a good strategy in the short term, our hearts begin to harden. Eventually we begin to lose our common humanity. We divide the world into those we can trust, and those we cannot. As much as we say we believe that good and evil are not absolutes, for convenience sake we still trust in those categories.

Once, a few years back, I participated in a small group comprised of trauma survivors. I will never forget until my dying day the story of a firefighter. He mentioned that as part of his job, he had learned and been trained to block out and depersonalize the horrors he saw on the job. Or, as he put it, if he internalized all of what he encountered on a daily basis, he would have never been able to sleep at night. Recent events in his life, however, had unfortunately even rendered that coping mechanism null and void. His brother and sister-in-law had been in a fatal car accident. In the car with them, buckled up in the backseat, had been a young boy, their son. The child miraculously survived the crash, but both parents were killed on impact. In accordance with the will of the recently deceased, the fireman had been given custody of the child. Fatherhood had been tougher than he even imagined. Due to unforeseen tragedy he had been forced into a role he had never desired and never sought for this precise reason.

He had taken to drink in large part because the child remembered vividly what had happened during the crash, and had taken to asking questions. The boy was young enough to not really understand death, but still sought in his own way to make sense of what he had observed. The firefighter felt isolated, alone, and overwhelmed in trying to find a way to answer what he had been asked. He sought to find a way to be honest that was informative but yet would not frighten or upset the child. The stress was more than he could deal with, so he turned to the bottle. Those with whom he worked noticed the change that had come over him. Knowing the full extent of what had happened, they were sympathetic to his situation, and pushed him into treatment. He was well-liked at work and a hard worker, so he was granted a significant amount of personal leave time so that he might heal himself, regardless of how long it might take.

To return once more to the YAF gathering in Kansas, while there I met a Friend for whom worship was exceptionally powerful. Certainly every worship was intense in its own way and sometimes emotionally draining for us all, but in her case, from the exact point the first message was shared until the hour was up, she would sob profusely. Observing her, I would often tear up myself and several times I, too, cried during worship. And as I think back about her response, I wonder if I was wise to hold back a bit at times, in so doing restraining my feelings. As someone finely attuned to the world, for better or for worse, my emotions were on full display because from the moment I arrived until the moment I left, the Spirit was everywhere.

One morning during worship I kept receiving a persistent message. Seek and ye shall find. Seek and ye shall find. Seek and ye shall find. I didn't share it because I wasn't quite sure where it fit and kept waiting the clearness I was sure would follow. With my own ministry, usually I receive a few words or a few sentences at a time, which with time, contemplation, and prayer grow into a coherent whole. I waited and waited, expecting more, but received nothing further. After worship had concluded, I remember thinking to myself how unusual this was, but concluded that nothing about the entire gathering had been ordinary thus far, so I shouldn't be surprised.

I made my way to the library to decompress a bit. As an introvert, I recognize that I need time in solitude to recharge my batteries and sufficiently process what I have just experienced. The room was quiet, shadowy, and comfortable. I surveyed three or four tables worth of Quaker-related books for sale, merely browsing. One especially interesting title jumped out at me, and I opened the front cover to skim a few pages. My attention drifted down two or three paragraphs to the bottom third of the page, which read, Seek and ye shall find.

I began to weep. Nothing could have spoken to my condition more perfectly than that. I wished that I could have remained within it longer, but then someone else walked into the library, so I quickly dried my tears. No one would have judged me for getting emotional, but long practiced habit demanded otherwise. Men are allowed to cry only in certain situations. Out in the world, strangers are often inclined to stare. Though I do not know their thoughts, that doesn't stop me from assuming I ought to be ashamed of "losing control". Gender socialization is tough to escape, even with significant effort and practice. Even so, I work hard to reprogram what I have been taught.

A prior post I wrote discussed whether it is possible or even plausible to dwell in a place where one never needs to doubt that God is present. A commenter noted that true faith requires devotion even in times of spiritual drought. I agree with the Friend, but I sometimes wonder if this sensation of being apart from the Spirit can be removed by discipline and practice. This proves a bit perplexing to me as I believe that we are saved by Grace. As such, our salvation can never be achieved through works alone. What causes me some confusion is that the guidance of the God of the New Testament is much more mysterious and subliminal than that of the Old Testament. Consider, for instance, what Moses is told by the burning bush. I include below a lengthy passage from Exodus to make my point.

⁴ When the LORD saw that he had gone over to look, God called to him from within the bush, "Moses! Moses!"
And Moses said, "Here I am."

⁵ "Do not come any closer," God said. "Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground." ⁶ Then he said, "I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob." At this, Moses hid his face, because he was afraid to look at God.

⁷ The LORD said, "I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their slave drivers, and I am concerned about their suffering. ⁸ So I have come down to rescue them from the hand of the Egyptians and to bring them up out of that land into a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey—the home of the Canaanites, Hittites, Amorites, Perizzites, Hivites and Jebusites. ⁹ And now the cry of the Israelites has reached me, and I have seen the way the Egyptians are oppressing them. ¹⁰ So now, go. I am sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people the Israelites out of Egypt."

¹¹ But Moses said to God, "Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?"

¹² And God said, "I will be with you. And this will be the sign to you that it is I who have sent you: When you have brought the people out of Egypt, you ^a]">[a] will worship God on this mountain."

¹³ Moses said to God, "Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, 'The God of your fathers has sent me to you,' and they ask me, 'What is his name?' Then what shall I tell them?"

¹⁴ God said to Moses, "I am who I am . ^b]">[b] This is what you are to say to the Israelites: 'I AM has sent me to you.' "

¹⁵ God also said to Moses, "Say to the Israelites, 'The LORD, ^c]">[c] the God of your fathers—the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob—has sent me to you.' This is my name forever, the name by which I am to be remembered from generation to generation.

¹⁶ "Go, assemble the elders of Israel and say to them, 'The LORD, the God of your fathers—the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob—appeared to me and said: I have watched over you and have seen what has been done to you in Egypt. ¹⁷ And I have promised to bring you up out of your misery in Egypt into the land of the Canaanites, Hittites, Amorites, Perizzites, Hivites and Jebusites—a land flowing with milk and honey.'

¹⁸ "The elders of Israel will listen to you. Then you and the elders are to go to the king of Egypt and say to him, 'The LORD, the God of the Hebrews, has met with us. Let us take a three-day journey into the desert to offer sacrifices to the LORD our God.' ¹⁹ But I know that the king of Egypt will not let you go unless a mighty hand compels him. ²⁰ So I will stretch out my hand and strike the Egyptians with all the wonders that I will perform among them. After that, he will let you go.

²¹ "And I will make the Egyptians favorably disposed toward this people, so that when you leave you will not go empty-handed. ²² Every woman is to ask her neighbor and any woman living in her house for articles of silver and gold and for clothing, which you will put on your sons and daughters. And so you will plunder the Egyptians."

By contrast, here is the New Testament take.

God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can't take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it.

Always be humble and gentle. Be patient with each other, making allowance for each other's faults because of your love. Make every effort to keep yourselves united in the Spirit, binding yourselves together with peace.

I conclude with a query. Is there a conflict between Salvation by Grace and spiritual discipline? Does God provide us with a list of things to fix, or do we receive our guidance a little bit at a time?

I Wish

I wish the music would play by itself
Shredded fingers - no ideas
I wish this rainy day could be the last
Could the world end - what a god send
I wish I could stop wishing you were here
But I don't want to - cos I still want you
I wish I didn't feel so flippin mad
Don't wanna scare you - just wanna love you
I wish my life could last a thousand years
Then I'd be clever - and build a heaven
I wish I could bring Nick Drake back to life
He'd understand - hold my hat band
I wish a constant stream of happy shit
Live forever - in world of leather
I wish the rain would just leave me alone
I can't wear that - stupid rain hat
I wish I was in Californ-I-A
Perno perfurme - in the Danube
I wish the thing of love meant just one thing
Cinderella - salmonella

When Secrets Cause Misunderstanding

Cross-posted to Feministing Community

Even as times change and private details become public domain (whether we want them to or not), we still assume that entrusting our most hidden secrets with someone else implies a sort of emotional intimacy only present within a romantic relationship. This proves problematic, however, when not revealing crucial bits of information makes it very easy to be misunderstood or to have one’s motives called into question.

Some criticize those who over-share, often with good reason, but I find the details that are loudly volunteered for all who might hear them aren’t necessarily shameful secrets, but rather a litany of poor decisions and often destructive behaviors that are shockingly hedonistic. While riding public transportation, I might overhear the sordid details of a random stranger’s alcohol-drenched one-night-stand, but I’m certainly not likely to hear about their struggles with body image or an eating disorder. Some topics are off-limits, even in a culture that is at times inclined towards narcissistic boasting.

The sort of honesty, by contrast, that I ascribe to is very different. As I’ve talked about before, I keep primarily female company. My friends are almost entirely female and I’m far more comfortable around women than I ever have been around men. Though therapy has been helping me work through my trust issues with men, the progress I have made is measured in inches, not miles. The going is slow, and frequently painful. It is my hope that someday I will be able to have friends who are male who I won’t feel compelled to keep at arm’s length from me, but in the meantime I have to work with where I am right now.

Recently I ran into an issue with a female friend whose religious beliefs are far more conservative than my own. In her own worship service, for example, men and women still sit separately from one another. Even outside of worship, men mostly keep male company and women mostly keep female company. She shared a story with me recently about how she once invited a man she had known for years and years, one significantly older than herself and very married, to her new apartment to show him around. He refused to enter the front door for fear that someone might assume that the two of them were up there purely to have sex or to engage in "evil", as he put it, and used a scriptural citation as justification.

Even while we were talking in person, I noticed very subtle but very deliberate ways in which she implied that all she wanted from me was friendship. I noticed these, of course, and tried not to seem as though I didn’t understand what she was very delicately stating. As she explained it to me, men who seek close bonds with women, particularly close emotional bonds usually desire a relationship. To her, I suppose, she thought I was trying to court her, and she was not interested in that at all. I had no interests beyond the platonic myself, but by the very fact that I opened up and shared large parts of myself with her very quickly into our friendship, she assumed my designs were romantic rather than friendly.

We eventually came to a mutual understanding, whereby she explained her reasons for setting sharp boundaries. After some initial discomfort, we are now the best of friends and stay in contact frequently. Yet, I also had to explain once more about the abuse and its impact upon me. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to come clean with something capable of making another person really uncomfortable for the sake of clearing up a misunderstanding. Though most people these days are okay with having opposite-sex friends, I wonder if there will ever come a time where our openness gives people the freedom to talk openly about that which makes them vulnerable and that which they are easily ashamed. If we did this, we’d certainly cut down on the problems caused by just not getting each other and we might even find that we have more in common than we’d ever dreamed. This is my hope for the future.

On Spiritual Gatherings, Retreats, Conferences, and Camps

I've been reflecting recently on the nature of conferences, gatherings, retreats, or camps. Roughly a month ago I returned from the Young Adult Friend 2010 conference held in Wichita, Kansas. In a month, I will attend Baltimore Yearly Meeting's Annual Session for the first time ever. For non-Quaker readers, a monthly meeting is where one attends worship every Sunday. A yearly meeting, by contrast, is a regional grouping of monthly meetings.

For me, at least, attending such functions almost always proves fruitful in all sorts of ways. Making deep, emotionally satisfying connections with other Friends is always welcome. After arriving home, I feel charged and driven, even ready to run through a brick wall if necessary to accomplish the aims and goals I have set for myself. Such spaces are a bit of a sustained pep talk of sorts, a call to action, if you will.

The YAF 2010 gathering in Kansas provided me the ability to experience a near-Utopia for three powerful days. The intensity, the fellowship, and the presence of the Spirit were present in proportions I have experienced very rarely in my own life. God's presence in my life was no abstraction, nor something frustratingly imperceptible. In my exuberance and joy, I expressed these feelings to a Friend, and his response was cautious and measured. He told me that any function this concentrated could never be replicated in day-to-day life and that, furthermore, we should take what we learned and apply it to our monthly meetings and be sure not to leave it all there.

It is certainly true that many Young Friends and Young Adult Friends live only for conferences and gatherings while ignoring their monthly meetings. Even so, one cannot discount the powerful and renewing experiences produced there. They may be only for the short-term, but even something so time-limited I believe needs to be enjoyed without caveats. Our much less exciting daily lives will always be there upon our return. Why not enjoy oneself as best one can?

Many groups, movements, or organizations, be they religious or secular put on some version or another of a gathering or conference. Those fortunate enough to attend find themselves riding a high of good feeling. With it comes a hard-charging idealism and restored sense of focus. This degree of energy or purpose may not be sustainable, but one cannot discount the impression they make upon those in attendance. I might not be able to remember where my cars keys are on my way out the door, but I will never forget the connections I made, the people I met, and the shared experience of togetherness produced as we shared space with one another. Those who I have spoken to upon return feel relaxed and at peace, as though they had been on a leisurely and badly needed vacation.

I met a Young Adult Friend while in Kansas who is part of a small intentional community under the care of her monthly meeting. I mention this to underscore a very common current among many participants; they feel as though they are in a place where they are finally understood, loved, accepted, and taken seriously. They have, in effect, found their tribe and their people, and are reluctant to part ways with them. Several of us have at least contemplated a desire to live together away from the demoralizing, hurtful aspects of the world, and though one might easily assign that to wishful thinking, it has nonetheless crossed the minds of more than a few.

As tempting as this is, I do know that there's a lot of hard work to be done out in the greater world. My hope upon leaving any gathering this profound and moving is that I might not see the experiences of true community slip away from me like sand in an hour glass, a little bit at a time. I may not be able to grasp hold to all of it, but my fond memories remain, and they persist. Science has taught us that the more intense an experience, the more likely it is for it to be indelibly burned into our memories. No matter what might face me, if I need to be reminded of what really matters in life, all I need to do is invoke those times. Some of what I experienced might be short-lived, but I take back much of value with me. If these gatherings are artificial and unreal, then here's to artifice and unreality!

Time Has Told Me (A Capella)

To sing Nick Drake, I have to rely on the lower part of my register, meaning that I have to sacrifice some volume in the process. I did two or three takes of this song with a guitar, but found that the guitar overpowered the beauty of the vocals, so I decided to strip it down and sing it without accompaniment.



Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind.

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
Someday our ocean
Will find its shore.

So I`ll leave the ways that are making me be
What I really don't want to be
Leave the ways that are making me love
What I really don't want to love.

Time has told me
You came with the dawn
A soul with no footprint
A rose with no thorn.

Your tears they tell me
There's really no way
Of ending your troubles
With things you can say.

And time will tell you
To stay by my side
To keep on trying
'til there's no more to hide.

So leave the ways that are making you be
What you really don't want to be
Leave the ways that are making you love
What you really don't want to love.

Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind.

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
For some day our ocean
Will find its shore.

Absolutely Ridiculous

Washington, DC, forecast for today.

Hot

Hi 99 °F

It isn't even July yet! Even in Alabama this would be called early August weather!

If this is what climate change means, I'm moving to a remote part of Northern Canada.

Quote of the Week

"Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity."- Hippocrates

Saturday Video

Dream (Dream) Dream (Dream)

I usually don't provide much in the way of commentary for my performance videos, but I figured I would today. Some performances are easy to record and can be managed in only two or three takes. This was not the case here today. I did close to ten takes in a row before eliminating minor, but still significant errors that would have detracted from the entire performance itself. My patience usually wears thin around the seventh or eighth take. Furthermore, any song that is particularly barre-intensive like this one can only be played a certain number of times before I have to stop. There is a reason for that, of course, and hopefully you'll find the story behind it interesting.

Roughly a decade ago, I was out driving one rainy November morning, and ended up hydroplaning into the back of the car in front of me. People drive very indecisively and at time irrationally when it's raining, so I was forced to apply the brakes rather abruptly when the whole chain of cars in front of me decided to come to a complete stop at a red light. My car had an unfortunate tendency to lack roadway traction in crucial situations. As I plowed into the bumper of what turned out to be a Jaguar, the airbag inflated.

My left thumb happened to be grasping the steering wheel rather aggressively before impact, and somehow the airbag was in its direct path. It was bent sideways and badly dislocated. Suffice it to say that it's never quite been the same since. Barring forces one to push hard against the underside of the neck with the fretting hand; the thumb is the crucial digit to accomplish this successfully. My left thumb doesn't have the range of motion it once did and bends very awkwardly and stiffly at the joint. When I write my own stuff, I have to be careful to mix up barre chords with open chords, since a song with 100% barring I'll only be able to manage about three or four times through. I've often wondered if I could have surgery on it.