oh minivan, how do I love thee? Let me count the greys…Click, and Matt will regale you with tales of day-trips, familiar frustrations, and the elusive nature of the “new”
I love my mini van.
I mean, not really. Who loves a mini van? It’s a stock silver-grey, has a cracked front bumper, and I’m currently nursing a check engine light that just appeared. It’s similarly ‘maintained’ inside. Dog hair covers each and every grey surface (you can have any interior colour you want, as long as it’s grey), and half read books, usb cords, and rocks and sticks that my kids deemed too interesting to throw away are jammed into the back pouch of each seat. In the front door caddies are coupons, sunscreen, bug spray, and (because Covid) facemasks and sanitizer.
It (of course) does all the boring stuff well: commuting groceries and passengers alike, transporting to and from work. But that’s not why I love it. I love it because it is the gateway to the new. The next adventure.
That desire to experience the new is always within us, isn’t it? To place our feet on unfamiliar ground. For some, the gateway to the new is their backpack and flight tickets. In our family of five, it has long been the road trip.
The van, as unassuming as it is, has been places. Our youngest, now age six, has never been on an airplane. But he has spent endless hours looking out the rear passenger window. In the last two years alone, the van has driven to Northwestern British Columbia and been ferried across eight hours of open sea to the island of Haida Gwaii. It has been driven days on end along the entirety of the Oregon Coast, through the interior of California, and even to the canyons or Arizona and Utah.
You should, by all means, never buy this van if we decide to sell it. It has not been used gently. But it has been used. And in the search of the (affordable) new and novel, it has taken us on many a far flung adventure and magnificent trip.
This year, of course, there are no such magnificent trips planned. The United States is right outfor the foreseeable future, as are escapades into neighbouring or nearby provinces and territories. Far flung remote communities on the island or Northern British Columbia beckon to our imaginations, but those invitations are tempered with the pleas of local residents asking tourists to stay away.
That leaves a lot of day trips in the interior of my province of British Columbia. On many a weekend the van is loaded early, and driven for hours to the next adventure, only to return before dark. All these day trips re-inforce what I already know: that I live in a breathtaking landscape, an area where others’ come to vacation.
But they also re-inforce another thing: that in my search for the new and novel, things have begun to feel awfully familiar. As amazing as our backyard is, it is still our backyard. I’m guessing that you can relate.
The endless search for the new is exciting, but it can also feel insatiable. Even before Covid restrictions and considerations, our resources have always been limited. The new feels increasingly scarce.
Maybe we need to think about ‘new’ differently.
A few years ago I began walking along a certain section of river side trail near my house. The section is accessible from only one side, running a number of kilometers before abruptly coming to a dead end at a riverbed. I have walked for hours along that trail, lost in podcasts, audiobooks, conversations with family and friends, and occasionally, even walking the path in silence.
For the longest time, it was the same, familiar trail. But eventually, great and obvious seasonal changes could be seen and felt. Dead and disintegrating leaves crushed into the mud in late fall. The hoarfrost reflecting the sunlight in early winter. The endless swath of green as leaves emerge in spring. The fluff of poplar seeds and pollen drifting lazily through the air in early summer.
Eventually your awareness increases. You begin to notice the smaller and subtle changes, as well as the seasonal ones. How erosion exposes a new root of a familiar tree. How a nest of ants is particularly busy in a dead stump. A gale of wind on a particular day, the strange stillness of another. You begin to notice what you bring to each walk, as well. The difference between a purposeful stride and a meandering one. The tone and context of the dialogue inside your head.
This section of trail has become one of my favorite places on earth. A place I have seen hundreds of times, and is never the same.
Because really, nothing is.
When we think of the ‘new’ we are most often referring to the novel: the place we have never been, the sight never beheld, the unfamiliar. But there is more than one type of new. It can also refer to the unveiling of things previously hidden, the dawning awareness of that which we’ve chronically overlooked.
It’s natural that we would long for the novel. Fantasize over flights we cannot board. Plot out future excursions to territories and countries who can not welcome us currently. Even yearn for van trips reaching new and unfamiliar communities in our home province. But with our eyes fixed on the distant horizon, we risk overlooking so much that is new in the here and now. Especially when it feels frustratingly familiar.
In the poem “Everything Is Waiting For You”, David Whyte reminds us that “alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity”. Everything is new. Always. But it requires discipline to see it. We will regularly overlook it and miss it entirely, especially in the places and people we are most familiar with.
These days, it’s hard to imagine a more timely piece of advice than to “stay alert”. So much feels paradoxically both unknown and repetative. Unprecedented threats coupled with the mundane. The days, weeks and months threaten to blur into each other. We wrestle with the restlessness of staying close to home with a smaller, constrained group of family and friends. As we long for the novel, we need to develop the alertness to see what is hidden in plain sight:
That all things are new, and ever unfolding in front of us.
You’ve got laundry to fold, dishes to do or some thumbs to twiddle… click above and let Matt read you this one.
For weeks I’ve been frowning at red licence plates.
This would likely be true at the beginning of any summer season. I live in British Columbia, in a popular vacation spot close to lakes, beaches, and (usually) long, hot, sun saturated summer days. Each spring we have an influx of neighbouring Albertans. Albertan vehicles (with their red lettered license plates) surround in suddenly congested highways, beach parking lots and campsites. Glowering at Alberta licence plates seems to be a favorite seasonal pastime among many Okanagan residents. And I have to admit, despite coming from the land of red plates myself… I’m scowling too.
This year, we might have good reason to scowl.
While British Columbia might have started with a significant outbreak of COVID-19 cases, it is Alberta that has been the black sheep of Western provinces for a while now. As British Columbia’s numbers of new infections continued to steady or decline, Alberta continued to report multiple exposures in care homes in Calgary, multiple meat processing plants in southern Alberta, and most recently a significant outbreak at a hospital in Edmonton. Despite similar populations, Alberta’s infection numbers are more than double that of BC’s.
It has been easy to feel a little smug about those numbers, especially if you live in the interior of British Columbia. For weeks, we sat at a comfortable one to two active cases between the entire region, exact location of infections unknown. Those paltry numbers, and the wide region they existed within, were just enough to feel that our communities were once again safe. For us to regain some security in seeing our friends again, sitting down on a sunny restaurant patio again, and beginning to return to a normal life.
In those weeks, (if we were talking about it at all) we were talking about the virus elsewhere. Either in the future (the dreaded phase 2), or the problem “over there”. For those in Vancouver or the Lower Mainland. For those in Alberta. For those in Ontario and Quebec. For those in the United States.
All of that was shattered a few days ago when it was revealed that a number of private Canada Parties had resulted in new and spreading outbreaks within my home city of Kelowna. Suddenly the problem “over there” came here. Future problems became present. Someone else’ problem became ours. And when 6 of the 8 people first identified as infected turned out to be non Okanagan residents (including those from the Lower Mainland and Alberta), we knew exactly who to scowl at.
But that’s not entirely correct, is it?
Our current outbreak is not due entirely to foreign, malicious forces descending on our sleepy, Covid-free town and region, is it? Careless intruders that come to our region, spread their virus and leave? Certainly much has been said about the conditions where these outbreaks occurred: large groups of people indoors, mixed groups of friends and strangers, people moving between tables in restaurants, inadequate physical distancing and mask use. But these conditions existed elsewhere before Canada Day, and on plenty of days before and since. It continues even now in the midst of our local outbreak.
We shouldn’t be surprised that outsiders would be a focus of this outbreak (or any outbreak). Our freedom, our security and our health is once again threatened, and that fear and anger has to go somewhere. That’s how blame works. It allows a release valve, but at the cost of only giving us a part of the picture. Can we pretend, even for a moment, to be faultless in these infections? Mask use in enclosed spaces still remains surprisingly low. Physical distancing and small social bubbles are still being ignored. Why? Perhaps because we have believed it a problem “over there”. Someone else’s problem.
A great illustration of this idea is our view of the current spread of the Coronavirus in the United States. Like so many of us, I have been watching the explosive spread with a detached and morbid fascination. As I write this, Florida is surpassing more than 11,000 new cases per day. Texas is not far behind that. The United States added over 71,000 new cases (and that number will certainly be outdated by the time you read these words. These numbers should terrify me. Do terrify me. But too often I look at them as if they are happening to some far away, disconnected place. As if I didn’t live a mere two hours away from Washington State. As if the Canada/ US border would never reopen.
One Twitter user, @ericonederful suggested that “The rest of the world is watching America like America watched Tiger King”, but I prefer @stevieoakley’s take: “I bet Canada feels like they live in the Apartment above a Meth Lab right about now”.
The truth is, whether we are talking about the exponential rise of cases in the United States, or local outbreaks in the lower mainland, Calgary, or Edmonton, we are all far too interconnected for us to think of this as a problem “over there”. To think of this as someone else’s problem.
I understand the function of compartmentalizing our threats, I really do. It’s hard to live in the shadow of an ever present threat. But thinking of this virus as someone else’s problem, or a problem for “over there” is both lazy and dangerous. We are more intelligent than that. At best, we have always been a short drive, a plane’s landing, a private indoor party away from a new outbreak in our region. It doesn’t mean we need to attempt to cut all ties and live in fearful isolation. But it does mean that we need to live with a constant awareness of the fragility of our community’s health.
One of the many lessons this pandemic is teaching us is that there is no such thing as a disconnected world. Even with many restrictions and recommendations in place, we are still in partnership with so many. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, we are all connected. These may not have been the vows we have taken with people we have never met, living provinces, states, or countries away, but it is no less true.
The problem can never really be just “over there”. Someone else’ problem.
Image by Alexas_FotosLet Matt read you this one! Think of it like delivery… for your ears!
Never.
That’s how often you should read the comment section on a parenting blog. This is probably true at the best of times, but I think we can all agree, these are not the best of times.
Like a lot of parents, I’ve recently been navigating being at home with three kids in different grades. I’ve been clapping out syllables with my 10 year old, assisting my 12 year old with multiplying and dividing fractions, and instructing my 6 year old in the proper way to hold his pencil (in spite of the fact that I never learned to correct my grip). I’m signing into multiple Google classrooms, Freshgrade, Epic, ReadTheory, Razkids, Newzella and Zearn accounts (yes, those are all real). Not to mention multiple Zoom conferences. I’m also trying to bake bread, make crafts, facilitate my kids reaching out to friends, get outside and limit screen time.
All while working and trying to keep myself and my family safe from a pandemic.
Like a lot of parents, this is all new. Unlike a lot of parents, I’m not also attempting to manage working from home. But even the little writing and projects I attempt are punctuated by interruptions, questions, requests for snacks, and complaints of being tired and bored.
Some days it all works really well. You see a new concept begin to make sense to your child. You cherish the time at home and the conversations that arise naturally. Siblings play well together. The bread rises, and you take turns punching it down together.
Other days are significantly harder. Days when you spend hours doing schoolwork with little to show for it. When you explain the concept of equivalent fractions with numbers, words, pictures and physical objects and it still doesn’t hit home. When the novelty of crafts and baking has worn off completely. When you are only going through the motions of normality, and your children know it.
Recently a writer composed an article sharing her experience of one of these tiring days at home with her child. It was honest, it was vulnerable, and it didn’t paint her in the best possible light.
Some readers attacked her for complaining about a life marked by privilege. Some patted themselves on the back for their superior upbringing and parenting, taking the opportunity to showcase the ways they have managed this crisis so far. Some derided the writer for allowing her child to become spoiled and run the household. Another chided the writer for writing about a concept so obvious: “Of course parenting is hard!”, they scold.
What was universal among so many responses was a complete lack of empathy. Each respondent unable or unwilling to imagine a scenario different from their own. Unable to listen to another’s grief and frustration without expressing judgement. Even those attempting to contribute helpful parenting advice (dangerous, that) came from a place apart, above. Very few seemed willing to accept her vulnerability and meet her in the midst of failure.
Of course, no one is surprised by this story. For the longest time, competition, individuality and self sufficiency have been given much higher stature than seemingly ‘soft’ virtues such as empathy and compassion. The unspoken message has been that seeing another’s perspective is nice and good, but inessential. People displaying their vulnerability is uncomfortable, and expecting empathy and compassion from strangers is naive and idealistic.
But that is exactly what we are depending on right now. The empathy and compassion of strangers. A deficit of empathy affects more than just the comment section of a struggling parent’s blog. It needlessly puts others at risk and prolongs this crisis.
Now we find ourselves faced with a crisis that the individual is incapable of addressing. Suddenly, we are being asked to see ourselves as a whole. To do our part, and trust that others will do the same. To consider those weaker or more at risk than ourselves. As cases continue to rise, we will realize how linked each member of our community is to our own health and wellbeing. We just can’t see it yet.
Without empathy, the individual can’t see the big picture; can’t see beyond their own risk and discomfort. And as more and more individuals deem their risk of infection to be low or of little consequence (whether this is true or not), concessions begin to be made. That means decreased vigilance around physical distancing. That means more people meeting together. And that ultimately means the spread of this virus and the prolonging of our collective isolation.
I don’t say this to shame anyone. We’ve all seen an influx of self appointed ‘social isolating police’ pop up online. There is a thin line between reminding people of best practices and social shaming, and it gets traversed daily. We are all making decisions about how to best navigate this crisis with acceptable risk. Some of us are making concessions out of exhaustion, for productivity, for childcare, for mental sanity.
But empathy asks whether we would we make all of those same concessions if we were immunocompromised? If we had an underlying lung condition? If our health and safety depended on the vigilance of others?
I know from conversations with those most at risk that they have not reduced their vigilance. That our collective concessions are terrifying. They can’t afford to pretend that this virus is a hoax, or a government conspiracy, or overblown. They watch the increasing numbers in our province with an eye on how each infection increases their risk. Denial is not a coping mechanism available to them. To them, denial is deadly.
When I take a risk that is manageable to me, but not to someone else, it is a failure of empathy. That I cannot, or will not see from another’s perspective.
Perhaps we can begin by admitting that we have a deficit of empathy. That we have devalued virtues which are needed more than ever now. That more is required than what we have previously given. That in the face of threat, we have focused mostly on our individual needs and fears. And that in our conceived scarcity, we have become less generous, even with our concern for others.
As is often the case, we do not know where we are weakest until we are tested. And this is our test. To find the ways to see this crisis through more than just our small perspective. To expand our imagination, our consideration, and our compassion.
It has been said that we will get through this together.
This is true. But how we get through it, and who we are together, will depend greatly on our empathy.
Listen. Those snacks in your isolation bunker aren’t going to eat themselves. Let Matt read you this one, and save the crumbs on the keyboard.
I’m not sleeping well, friends.
All this past week I’ve been receiving thoughtful messages from friends asking how I’m doing. And honestly? I feel like I’m losing. I’m embarrassed how afraid I am, how anxious I feel.
There has been a tightness in my chest for over a week. It’s become harder than ever to take a deep, slow, breath. But this shortness of breath is not the pandemic COVID-19. This is the fear of it, the fear of all that’s coming.
For months now I’ve been following the growth and spread of the novel Coronavirus. Not surprisingly each new development has prompted more investigation of the virus, the responses, and the fallout. For weeks, I’ve felt informed and level headed. I watched as people stated that the likeliness of a wide scale spread of infection was low for those of us in North America. I was skeptical, but optimistic. And I was sleeping at night.
At the hospital I work at, we began preparing for the possibility of cases trickling down to us as people heeded the call to return to Canada from all around the globe. As people began emptying store shelves of toilet paper, sanitizer and non-perishables, I have remained calm, knowing that restocking would eventually come. I looked at the supply of dried and canned goods already in our cupboards, and swallowed hard. But I was still sleeping at night.
When spring break began, our family headed to a remote cabin to self isolate for a few days in style. On a quiet piece of land beside the sea, with limited cell phone reception, we were sheltered from the madness that was the news cycle between March 14th and 20th, receiving only sporadic updates from one corner of the property. I was feeling the tension rise inside of me. But I was still sleeping at night.
When we had internet, we posted pictures of hikes by the sea, of firepits and wood stoves. And from all accounts, it looked like we were winning.
Fast forward one week, and a lot has changed. I’ve followed each morning update by our Provincial Health Officer and Prime Minister. I’ve been invited to four separate Coronavirus themed Facebook groups to keep track of community news and needs. Increased knowledge of this virus has not decreased my anxiety. And this week, that anxiety has reached a fever pitch.
And I started having trouble sleeping at night.
And I know that I’m not alone in this anxiety. I know that many are having trouble taking a deep, slow breath. That many are up at night. That many no longer feel like they are winning.
It’s true for the elderly in group homes, hoping that none of the staff coming and going will bring about a virus that many of them will not be able to withstand.
It’s true for the parent at home, looking at their child with asthma and hoping that they can be diligent enough to avoid transmitting the virus.
It’s true for the grocery clerk whose checkout counter forces them to be within 2 meters of their customer.
It’s true for the nurses, radiologists, doctors, and porters working in the hospital who know that protective equipment is in short supply and dwindling. That respirators and those who can operate them are in high demand. And that many more sick and infected patients are coming.
It’s true for each worker who has to go into work and then return home to their loved ones.
And it’s true for each and every person who is already beginning to wonder how long they can live like this.
Because truthfully, unbelievably, it has only been 11 days since British Columbia announced that the virus is a Public Health Emergency. Many of us have only been isolated to our house for a little over a week, two at most. It feels longer.
That’s less than two weeks of markers on the floor showing us how far back to stand from the customer in front of us. Less than two weeks of attempting to set up workplaces from home. Less than two weeks since we could sit down in a restaurant, bar or library. Less than two weeks of feeling like each cold or flu symptom could be something much worse.
In these past two weeks, we’ve seen a lot of responses to this crisis. We’ve seen a lot of brave faces. A lot of positivity. We’ve seen instagram photos of families out hiking, we’ve seen pictures of people’s home office set up, we’ve seen chore lists and bribery reward charts intended to allow parents a few minutes of uninterrupted work time. We’ve seen people’s baking. We’ve seen their new home gym routines and push ups challenges. We’ve seen cars driving by emergency departments with encouraging and thankful notes. We’ve seen nearby residents banging pots and pans in appreciation of front line healthcare workers. And we’ve seen a lot of heartwarming pictures of families cuddling up together reading, or playing board games.
We’ve seen a lot of people who look like they are winning at this new, bizarre way of life.
And if this is an accurate depiction of your life these past week, I’m genuinely happy for you. In my own family we’ve played boardgames and videogames together. We’ve made bread from scratch and enjoyed viciously beating down the risen dough. We’ve even survived a few math lessons together at the dinner table.
And I’ve also had to lock the door to my room and barricade myself away from my kids because I was afraid of yelling at them, again. I’ve read a doctor’s account of the war-like conditions in his hospital in New York State and felt utterly ruined. I’ve wandered my house, lost. Picking up my phone to refresh a feed I just looked at 5 minutes ago. Searching through cupboards and fridges I’m nervous about not being able to restock.
And the truth is, I think many of us are tired and scared. Some of us have given this new life it’s best possible start, and two weeks in, we’re wondering how long we can keep this up. We’ve seen the cracks begin to show in our best intentions of staying positive and productive. We’ve run out of shows to distract ourselves with on Netflix. We’re sick of playing the same board games already. We’re not getting the work done. We’ve seen our lesson plans fail. We’ve seen a 40% increase in alcohol sales. We’ve contributed to these sales. We watch the exponential rise of cases in our province and country. We wait in our homes, watching our phones and computers. Unable to move, unable to escape it. We’ve felt the end of this crisis become more and more elusive.
It’s time for a few of us to admit that we are not winning. Whether we are isolated at home alone, with family, or heading back to work daily, it’s okay if we feel like we are barely getting by. This is not a game we win, this is a crisis we survive.
Many of us are looking for lessons. We’re trying to see this in the best light possible. Hope can be our greatest ally, but it is hard to come by these days. It’s okay if it’s illusive right now.
Perspective is developed in time. In these hardest of moments, these initial weeks, it’s okay to be honest. It’s okay to admit that we are not winning. That we are not okay. That we are tired and afraid.
One day, we will see how this has shaped and taught us. One day, we will be okay.
Click the triangle, and Matt will do all the heavy lifting/ speaking for you!
(Content Warning: Sexual, physical and psychological abuse.)
For 10 years, I worked in a group home with adults with disabilities. It was a job I felt completely unprepared for. Because I was.
The job was a drastic change from all my previous employment. The organization that hired me trained me, but I would soon find that very little could prepare you for the unknown and unexpected.
The very first time I stepped into the home, I remember greeting one of the individuals. Other than his form fitting wheelchair, he didn’t have any obvious physical indications of disability. I said hello, and then stood awkwardly as the recipient of my greeting starred through me.
The staff member beside me leaned close and whispered: “it’s okay, just stay here for a while”. I met my companions gaze. Made myself stay there, uncomfortable, and exposed. As if I was the one on display. Suddenly, a giant smile broke forth and a squeal of excitement arose from my companion. Nothing hidden, nothing held back.
That was my first lesson. And in the individual in front of me, my first teacher.
The next ten years would be full of seminars from unforeseen experiences, unlikely teachers. Some teachers in our life refine a concept or help us acquire language or imagery. Others open the door to new worlds we were previously ignorant to. This was the latter.
Working at this home was my introduction to healthcare in general and particular. But it was also my introduction to a range of lived experience I had never considered. The needs of the individuals I cared for varied greatly. Some were talkative, most were non verbal, all of them expressive communicators (if you had the eyes to see and ears to hear). Each new sound, each unexpected head nod, shake, or dismissive arm wave, each health crisis, each howl of unexpected laughter a lesson. These were the instructors, inviting me into a wider and deeper world.
The organization I worked for had started small in the 1970s, when a collection of families chose to band together for support and resources, choosing to care for their with children with disabilities in their own homes, rather than large mental institutions. The organization grew as these large facilities began to be phased out in the 1980s and 90s amid revelations of wide scale abuse, neglect, and even forced sterilization.
When the organization began expanding, there was a vision for a new type of home for those with disabilities. Lessons had been learned from the oppressive structures of the past. The homes would be houses, not institutions. Indiscernible as a group home from the sidewalk. Each individual would have their own room, and each room would be reflective of its resident. Walls would be painted. Pictures would be hung.
It was all part of a bigger movement of course. As mundane as paint and pictures sound, it was a world away from green-grey hospital walls and sterile rooms. It was a movement from the institution to the home, and from anonymity to personhood. And it was occurring in across the globe.
Of all organizations participating in this movement, none stands out for me like L’arche.
L’arche was created in 1946 when a young man of 18 was invited by his Dominican priest to visit an asylum for the mentally ill in France. Seeing the horrors of that place, and the inherent beauty and nobility of those with mental and physical challenges, the man opened the first L’arche home where adults with and without disabilities lived together. Not in shifts, not in respite care, but a full life together. The good, the bad, and the beautifully mundane. The man lived in that very cottage himself, and would count the people he lived with there as some of his closest friends. Other members became involved and new L’arche homes and communities were opened. Eventually the homes would span across countries and continents.
The man that spearheaded this organization spent the remainder of his life advocating for full acceptance and celebration of those individuals with special needs. Through L’arche communities, thousands have found acceptance, love and belonging; ‘Abled’ and ‘Disabled’ alike. This man would go on to pen best sellers based on his observations about community. He spoke at length, painting a picture with his words of a broader, inclusive, and complete humanity.
I knew at once that he would be my teacher.
I discovered his teachings while I was still working at the group home. As much as I had learned in my years of experience, this man spoke with a tenderness and admiration for the individuals that he lived alongside that was both exciting and foreign to me. Despite being a Catholic philosopher, the man often referred to himself as a humanist first, and theologian second. The order was important. This man’s reverence for God seemed rooted in a deep and grounded love for humanity.
I was hardly the only one enamoured with this man and his work. In his lifetime he was revered as a living saint. He was the recipient of multiple prestigious awards including the Templeton Prize, the Order of Canada, and France’ Legion of Honor. Upon his passing in May of 2019, people the world over wondered aloud if he would soon be canonized as a Saint.
Last year the organization L’arche began receiving claims of sexual abuse against their founder. A third party was hired to investigate these claims, and in February, a report detailing their findings was released. It is as transparent as it is damning.
The report details a history of repeated sexual abuse of six non-disabled women by Vanier. Despite not knowing each other, each account is disturbingly similar. The victims looked to Vanier for spiritual direction and formation, and instead received sexual, physical and emotional abuse steeped in spiritual language and imagery, and absolute secrecy. It also outlines a long history of sexual abuse by Vanier’s mentor, Father Thomas Phillipe. Multiple accounts, and Vanier’s correspondence with Phillipe, indicate that both men considered the sexual abuse to be a form of spiritual awakening, a mystical experience with the Divine.
This was, of course, not the victim’s experience.
These women were told that the most ugly and horrific acts were in fact beautiful, meaningful, and spiritual. It took many of them years to begin the process the abuse they had been subject to, and years more before they could speak of it. The first reported case of abuse occurred in 1970, the last in 2005. All of the women abused would have watched as the world celebrated this man. As governments and those in prominent positions admired his gentle qualities and wise words, and mourned him as a modern saint. And they knew the truth. That the man who spent his life advocating for the inherent dignity of each human being didn’t really believe it. Not all the way. At least not for them.
The victims who were assaulted by Vanier are worth remembering, worth focusing our attention on, because so many people have felt violated by these revelations. And many of us have a dog in this fight. Many of us had already categorized Vanier as a Saint or hero. I certainly had. That re-categorization as abuser and predator takes some time. Much ink has been spilled writing about people reckoning with the disillusionment of who Vanier really was. Friends who knew him appeared dazed, as though struck. People who revered him and followed his work appear lost and bewildered. And the organization that he founded grapples with the fact that his teachings and vision are woven throughout their DNA.
L’arche is, of course, not Jean Vanier. To their immense credit, L’arche has repeatedly and publicly declared their support for the women abused, and roundly condemned the actions of their founder. They have created booklets with pictures outlining the abuse so that members who cannot read can understand the offenses. Throughout their website, links to past essays and teachings by Vanier redirect back to the findings of this inquiry.
Everything, all that this man has accomplished and said, is now seen in the light of the darkness of these offenses.
When I began to write this post, I wondered if this was fair. Vanier’s ideas and vision have been an inspiration to so many, including myself. And the fruits of his labour and vision have sprawled across the globe, bringing love and community to so many. To this day, he remains one of the finest writers and communicators on the human condition I have ever come across.
What can we do with so beautiful, and so vile? Can we separate the two?
This is a familiar question.
Can we watch a Woody Allen film, and enjoy his talent for intricate dialogue and clever framing, knowing that he slept with and married his adopted daughter?
Can we still enjoy Kevin Spacey’s bone chilling depiction of Frank Underwood, or Kayser Soze (sorry, 24 year old spoiler warning…), or American Beauty’s Lester Burnham, knowing that he has been accused of decades of inappropriate sexual advances towards his coworkers, including minors?
What do I do with my Ryan Adams’ t-shirt, or the collection of albums that I own of his in light of the series of allegations levied against him?
The list of these questions and examples is long, and it grows longer daily. How do we separate the art from the artist? How do we separate the instruction from the teacher? Can we even do such a thing?
In the case of Vanier, I cannot. As much as his words have meant to me. As much as I appreciate all the great and important work that he has played a role in. I am grateful for the lessons he has taught me. But that well is poisoned, and I will not drink from it again.
One of the first lessons that those with disabilities taught me was integration. When an individual was bored they blew raspberries or yelled out loudly. When they were amused, their body would shake with laughter. When that first resident looked through me all those years ago, and then erupted in joy, I knew that there was nothing hidden.
There is no lesson more important for the spiritual teacher than that of integration. Without it, nothing else matters. If a man or woman deems to teach others how to live, we have to trust that they have done the work themselves. That they can practice what they preach. That they have integrity, that they are integrated.
All of Vanier’s teachings spoke to the belief that there is no difference in value between him and the person in front of him. What he did repeatedly, consciously, and secretly to those vulnerable women was a betrayal to them, and to himself as well. Jean Vanier was dis-integrated. There existed at least two, drastically different Jeans. The one who lived and spoke humbly and with reverence towards his housemates with disabilities, and the one who repeatedly and systematically preyed upon vulnerable women that looked up to him. Whether Jean was a good man who commited great evil, an evil man who somehow accomplished good, or a complex man capable of both blessings and curses, it hardly matters. Jean never attained the integration on display by so many around him. He failed to learn the central lesson he taught.
Jean Vanier may no longer be my teacher, but his revelation has been.
Because we are all students, and everything can be your teacher.
Especially the lessons you would rather not learn.
Life is busy! Make with the clicking and let Matt read you this one…
I have two fears.
Actually, I have many, many fears, but we don’t have the time, and I’m sure I’ll write about each as time and interest warrants.
These are not the fears that keep you up at night, or cause you to glance over your shoulder nervously when walking alone. These are not red-balloon tied to a sewer gutter fears. These are the fears that settle in your gut. The fears that cause me to feel unexpectedly anxious or irritable. That unrest that finds me tapping my foot rapidly or pulling at my hair, or chewing absentmindedly on the inside of my lip. That invite me to look ever to the next distraction, to refresh my social feed again and again. That cause me to put on another podcast, another audio book. Anything to not be left alone with my thoughts.
I am running out of time, energy, and resources to chase down that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
The sinking dread that there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
This is a silly metaphor, I know. There is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. So says everyone who has never reached the end of the rainbow themselves.
Last summer I remember staring at a vivid rainbow outside of our house, and marvelling at what a clever illusion it was. The end of the rainbow did not fade out of view, or reach mysteriously behind nearby hills, it landed in a backyard, between the 3rd and 4th row of houses on the hill across the highway. I could mark the spot on Google maps. Could have driven down myself, and grabbed that pot of riches before the resident of Sullivan Road was ever the wiser.
The pot, of course, is never seen. I think that’s important. After all, in our mind it’s always overflowing. More than enough to satisfy our debts, our needs, and even our wildest longings.
The metaphor makes perfect sense to me because of how clear the rainbow appears, and how limitless the gold is imagined.
I find myself chasing rainbows all the time. The pots of gold are different, sometimes defined, often vaguely alluded to. They are often limitless, and they are always the solution a problem.
This is a central thesis of the philosopher Peter Rollins. He refers to it as ‘the lack’. He suggests that each of us has a lack, and each of us is believing a lie (or many lies) about what will eliminate the lack in our lives. It might be money, it might be success, it might be adoration, or respect. It could look like veganism, or spirituality, or fitness. Rollins jokes that in his home town of Los Angeles, it looks a lot like CrossFit.
In my own faith tradition of Christianity, it was common language to speak of a “God shaped hole”. And though that sounds like a trite title of a Christian-rock song (it absolutely was), there may be more truth to it than those in church were willing to admit. Because here too, we attempted to fill the lack with things that seemed like, but were not, God. Specific prayers, right beliefs, structured habits, even an authentic relationship with the Divine. All intended to fill the lack. All unsuccessful.
And how do I know that they were unsuccessful? Because we kept feeling the lack. Kept chasing rainbows. Kept looking for the next bigger and better pot of gold.
As I rapidly approach forty, I have never ran so hard towards the end of the next rainbow, and it’s magical gold. This is the result of that first fear, a frantic impatience that I’m running out of time. There is that sense that I must do it now. Be a more spontaneous husband, be a more present father. Become a more competent and compassionate nurse. Become a successful writer and communicator. Get published, write that book! Get in shape now, because 40 could be the new 30!
None of these things, are bad, of course. But each is promising something. That a perfect relationship with my spouse and children is achievable. That somehow I could avoid the heartache of loving and misunderstanding another as we grow and change. That with enough experience and training I could anticipate and properly respond to each crisis at work. That with proper diet and exercise I could feel better than I did in my 20s (this one might actually be achievable, I was awful to myself in my 20s…). That if I was a published author and had the admiration of friends and strangers, that I could quiet my own critic inside my head.
But the real beauty of Rollins’ concept of ‘the lack’ is that you may get exactly what you hope for, and still find it wanting. That you might have an amazing marriage, resilient and loving children, ageless complexion, a respectable career that you enjoy and have mastery of, and achieve your wildest ambitions.
And you will still feel incomplete.
Which brings me to the most deceptive rainbow, the most elusive pot of gold. That there is a way to navigate all of these desires, all these rainbows and pots, in a manner that actually fills the lack. A life in perfect balance. Exercise and diet, but also wings and beer. Friendship and love, but also silence and solitude. Spirituality and realism in turns. Wisdom to lead the best life, one where the lack simply disappears.
I know that this is the most deceptive rainbow, because it’s the one I want to chase, even now. The one I’m not certain is false, even as I examine it. This is the rainbow visible across the highway. The one I suspect I could actually find the end of, if only I knew the exact route and coordinates.
But I also suspect that wisdom, true wisdom, is the acceptance of my second fear. That there is no pot of gold, no magic bullet, no wise and skillful navigating that will ultimately fulfill that lack within me.
That the lack may be my oldest friend, and constant companion. That the lack will be with me always. No matter how in shape, no matter how accomplished, no matter how loved or respected. The lack stands beside me, whispering and reminding that the most beautiful illusions are just that.
That I may never feel whole, but I am.
And that my life, and all that I require, is here.
This is a 5-10 minute read, but if you’d like, Matt will read it to you over the next luxurious 12 minutes.
Real quick side note, before you begin reading (thank you!). This post is entitled ‘Practicing the Pause’, and I realized halfway into writing it that the term “That Pause” was used by Rob Bell in his podcast. Rob is one of the people I listen to most – so his ideas no doubt influence mine. There is enough here that is my own that I feel comfortable posting, but I wanted to be absolutely transparent with the acknowledgement that he wrote it first (and likely, better).
You need to take a moment.
I know, I know. You don’t have a moment. You’re multitasking. You’re stressed. All of life’s usual chaos hasn’t magically disappeared with the passing of a new year, and now you have a handful of resolutions that you may or may not have already broken (hey, you made it a week… that’s something). You’re pushing a boulder uphill at work, and taking your hand off for even a second costs something. You’re overwhelmed at home. The house and its residents resist any and all attempts at cleaning or organizing. You finish one meal only to be asked when the next snack or meal will be. You read the news on your phone and you’re anxious and angry. You feel more isolated than ever before, despite being surrounded by people and online connections. You feel like the wheels are coming off, and you’re exhausted from keeping up appearances.
How did I do? I don’t know you at all, but I’m willing to bet that I hit at least a few nails on the head. I would bet this because I feel the exact same way regularly, and so do many of my friends and colleagues (once we finally feel safe enough around each other to be even a little honest and vulnerable).
It’s my sincere belief that the vast majority of us are more anxious and stressed than ever before. Practices such as yoga, meditation, mindfulness, or even just breathing deeply have skyrocketed in popularity and interest because we are desperate to take a moment. Re-acquaint ourselves with our body, our breath, and our thoughts.
And I can’t write to you as a practitioner or expert in any of these disciplines. I’m a novice at even simple breathing meditation. I feel too old and out of shape to subject myself to a local yoga studio, or even slip in the back row of a local YMCA class. And being aware of my thoughts is dizzying, like eavesdropping on a drunk who has suddenly lost all filter.
But what I have found (and attempt to practice) is the pause. The space between input and reaction. A willingness to sit with that which we are unsure of, uncomfortable with, or afraid of. And of course, ‘sitting with’ may not involve sitting at all! Sometimes we can manage no more of a pause than a deep, slow breath. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes ‘sitting with’ is actually standing at a sink full of dishes without music, podcast or Netflix. Sometimes sitting with is folding clothes in silence. Sometimes sitting with is going for a walk with your dog.
I like the pause. It comes a little too naturally, and I can extend it a little too long. When I’m overwhelmed or stressed, I like to freeze everything. No new input. Everybody stop moving.
Of course, that doesn’t usually work. I work in an Emergency Department. I don’t get to ask the Emergencies to hold off until I feel ready for them. Neither can I expect even my closest friends or family to wait indefinitely until I am ready to respond to the next choice/ plan/ requirement. The world doesn’t care about your pause. The world remains just as demanding as it was a second ago.
A pause is not a stop. It is implied that you will continue moving, continue engaging, continue to react to what your world presents to you. A pause is simply space and time to defer your judgement. To gain a little perspective. To think about your response and actions.
When you feel like your job is all consuming. Pause.
When you read something grossly offensive in the comment section. Pause.
(And seriously. Never, ever read the comment section).
The pause doesn’t negate what you are feeling. It gives only gives it space. It tells you that you don’t need to react in this moment. Breathe.
A while ago I thought that someone should invent a new form of social media. You could call it “Slow Facebook” or “Slow Twitter” (catchy names I know…). You could comment on someone’s post, but only a day later. Imagine how many fewer Twitter feuds would exist if someone had to sit with their idea for 24 hours. Imagine how many responses would simply be shrugged off, as people’s anger had a chance to dissipate.
Because when we don’t have the pause, this is what I believe we are left with: fear and anger. Read any divisive online post or comment section and see how true this is. One of the best status updates I ever read on Twitter belongs to the author Robin Hobbs: “Good morning Twitter, what are we outraged about today?”.
Outrage is understandable. Fear and anger is an appropriate response to the potential start of a new war. Appropriate when you see a government official dismantling political safeguards meant to ensure a healthy democracy. Appropriate when you feel that your life’s work is reinforcing the wealth of the top 1%, while you struggle with inflation and bills. Appropriate when you see ignorant and hurtful notions being slung and celebrated online.
But the practice of the pause reminds us that we are not at our smartest, deepest, most grounded selves in the moment of insecurity. A pause reminds us that situations are more complex than they initially appear. The pause reminds us that while news stories break in the first 15 minutes, their full context may not be revealed in the next 15 years. The pause reminds us that complex problems will require intelligent solutions. The pause reminds us that there is joy, vitality and beauty to life that we will not see or experience if we continue to run around frantically. The pause reminds that we have more emotions than simply fear and anger.
So at the start of this upcoming year and decade, consider practicing the pause. Consider this the easiest of your resolutions. There’s no weight to lose, no gym to join, no budget to stick to. Just the consideration that maybe, just maybe, we need to take a moment when we’re unsure, stressed, angry or overwhelmed.
We will pause. We will breathe. We will reflect. And then we will engage.
And if you completely disagree, feel free to tell me so in the comments section (but maybe wait 24 hours…).
This is a longer one. Settle in. Grab a drink. Let Matt do all the heavy lifting/ reading…
We’ve finally had snow.
My children are very happy. My wife is happy. My dog is ecstatic. I am… reluctantly appreciative of the snow.
We have a monsterously steep driveway. It does mean that we are fortunate enough to have a wonderful view of the nearby hills. But for a few months each year (don’t hate me, rest of Canada) our driveway becomes treacherous. Shoveling takes the better part of an hour. Ascending the driveway becomes a fun game of “will we make it up today?”. Backing out of the driveway requires a spotter watching out for oncoming traffic. If not for the driveway, I’d be singing of a white Christmas in November. But no, I’ll take the green for as long as I reasonably can.
Each day for the past weeks I have been watching the hills, watching the frost and snow cover the pines on the very highest elevations, and then day by day, the tops of the hills are hidden in low cloud, and the snow covers another layer lower.
Yesterday, the snow finally reached the bottom of the hill, and us.
But as much as I dread the driveway, as much as I am tired and sweaty from the last hour of shovelling, I’m glad to see it. It hasn’t felt much like Christmas this year.
Most years, by mid November, I’m ready. I’m buying egg nog. I’m queuing up the Christmas playlists, I’m working on the Christmas letter (which still won’t usually be mailed before Boxing day), I’m baking cookies. I’m all in.
But this year has been different. Christmas promises a lot of things: love, family, gifts, hope, peace, and delivers in vastly different measures for each person. Christmas is a time of celebration, bright lights, cookie exchanges, thoughtful gifts and adoration. But it’s also darker days, higher electricity and credit card bills, being overwhelmed with obligations, sadness over those lost, and the cold.
Did I mention it finally snowed?
For those of us in houses, the cold mostly means higher heating bills, scraping our car windshields and layers upon layers before leaving our dwellings. For those who are living between shelters and in communities of makeshift tents, it means quite another.
And there’s a number of people who will be sleeping in tents among the snow tonight.
The city where I live has a problem. It has a significant population of unhoused individuals, and (currently) inadequate resources to shelter them. This fall, tents and makeshift tarps lined the downtown city sidewalks close to various shelters and services. The ‘tent-city’ took up an entire block. And then one day in late November, the city, citing fire regulations, unexpectedly and suddenly moved this population and their belongings to less central, residential areas of the city. Areas much closer to people’s homes. People in that community were informed of the move the same day the unhoused population was.
Like a lot of problems that are not easily solved, the decision to move this group of people and their belongings was complex. While I believe I’m smart enough to realize some of the factors at play here (city and fire regulations, affect on local businesses) as well as some of the root issues of homelessness (past trauma, medical conditions, systemic racism, lack of social and financial supports), I’m not an expert in any of those areas.
So I’m not going to focus on this encampment, or the city’s decision to move them. I’m going to focus on two reactions, two responses that have dominated my thoughts over the past week.
The first response is a picture. It was featured on the front page of our local newspaper. An individual with a jean coat with matching pink gloves and an embroidered scarf is holding up a sign that simply states two words: “Not welcome”.
That’s all I know about this person. In contrast to their seemingly put together appearance, the sign appears hastily written, blotches of paint visible within the letters. The person has the sign held high, covering their face. They clearly posed for the picture that would be run on the front page, and yet did not want to be associated with the message they had written.
A few days later, a prominent pastor in our city weighed in with his opinion on the recent relocation, and on homelessness in the city in general. The front page, and the large “Not Welcome” sign remained fixed in my mind. This pastor had written passionately and intelligently before. I was hopeful that this pastor was going to comment on our common humanity, our need for empathy, and our need to stop ‘othering’ this unhoused population.
This was not what was written.
To his credit, this pastor first challenged each person to walk down the affected street in our city, to see the faces of those most affected. The people hunkering down under makeshift tarps, those who worked at the nearby shelter, the business owners attempting to make a living. He reflected on his own religious instruction to have compassion and care for the poor. He lamented the tragic history that many of these individuals have had that has led to their current living situation.
And then, perhaps because he is a pastor, he likened our city’s current homeless situation to a story of Jesus in the Bible (you can find it in the Gospel of John, fifth chapter). In the story, Jesus comes upon an encampment of people near a pool. The pool is thought to be a place of healing for those who can reach the pool while the water is stirring (supposedly by a divine being). Many sick, blind, paralyzed and emaciated lived nearby. It is here that Jesus comes across a man who has had an infirmity to his legs for 38 years, and asks him if he would like to be well.
That question, “would you like to be well?” is an interesting one, and one the aforementioned pastor focuses on. In the story, the man explains his predicament, and Jesus, having never received a direct answer, heals him anyway. The man doesn’t answer correctly before he is healed.
But this pastor sees the lame man’s indirect answer, and labels them excuses. He reckons that perhaps the man did not want to be healed. That he preferred begging, that perhaps he would have to take responsibility for his life if he was healed. And then he related the story to the unhoused. Maybe some of them don’t want to be housed. Maybe some of them don’t want to “be clean and sober and work and pay [their] own way”.
Ah. There it is. So that’s the pastor’s real message. There are the deserving and the undeserving. Sick or poor, hoping for miracles or meals, 2000 years ago or today, some people deserve our help and compassion, while others do not. Those who are deserving, lets move heaven and earth. And for the undeserving? This pastor argues not only against assistance, but that we should make our city “a very unwelcome place for them”.
There it is again. “Not Welcome”.
Now had this sign holder taken her fears and concerns to a town meeting to be aired and discussed, had this pastor talked about how to set up boundaries that considered both the unhoused and businesses, I would have little arguement with either response. But as much as their responses may have been birthed in fear and frustration and exasperation, it is their lack of compassion that disturbs me the most.
I mentioned before that I was no expert in many of the complex factors affecting our city’s homeless population. But in the area of compassion, I am certainly passionate, and a practitioner.
I have worked with the medically unwell for nearly 15 years. I have seen many people who were very sick become healthy and make a full recovery. But I’ve seen just as many who never will. I’ve been in close proximity to those who some would call lame, who are paralyzed, or have physical and mental ailments. Some for 38 years or more. I’ve cared for these people. I care for them still.
This is an interesting phenomenon within healthcare. Where we can, practitioners endeavor to heal to the best of our ability. But there are many things we cannot heal. Certain diseases, chronic conditions, even the human condition of aging and own slow entropy are inescapable, and unfixable.
In these cases, compassion and care becomes infinitely more important than previous desired outcome of “getting better”. Compassion becomes the outcome. Reducing suffering matters, even and especially when all seems hopeless. Imagine if the next patient I met with COPD (a chronic lung disease that progresses until death), I refused to treat, on the basis that they would never ‘get better’. Or the next patient with ALS, or Multiple Sclerosis, or untreatable metastatic cancer.
I make this connection with our city’s unhoused and their treatment because I think this pastor, this unknown sign holder, and many of us are focused on certain outcomes. And that’s not bad in itself, just incomplete. This pastor sees that years of meals and clothing drives and “handouts” have not decreased the number of unhoused individuals visible downtown. I believe this pastor wants to help, wants an end to this crisis, want’s this to ‘get better’. He’s not uncaring, he’s motivated. He’s a fixer.
It’s a good impulse. But it becomes really ugly if we lose our compassion.
Because what happens if we can’t fix the problem? Or what if it takes a really long time? What if, as the experts imply, this a result of lost social and instituional structures, multi-generational trauma, systemic racism, a society-wide dependence on numbing through substances? What if this isn’t a “everybody work harder!” problem?
What if those with past trauma are unable to trust institutional structures? What if someone who was part of a residential school can’t bring themselves to spend one night in a shelter with the name ‘mission’ on it. Or in the basement of a church? What if someone with longstanding substance use can’t simply sober up by sheer willpower alone in order to jump through the hoops of ‘dry housing?’ What if someone can’t focus on job training before they find a reliable place to sleep that night? What then?
What do we do when someone won’t “get better”? When we can’t win, can’t fix?
Do we ignore our humanity? Our ability to see the person in front of us as more than a problem to solve? Do we stand outside holding signs that say “not welcome”, or suggest to our followers that we make the city as unwelcome as possible? How do we possibly justify that?
And what does that do to us?
Our compassion matters. It matters to the people around us, and it matters within us. The moment I saw the front page, and that “Not Welcome” sign, I thought of Jesus’ warning that it is possible to gain the world, and forfeit your soul. I know that sounds religious and weird. I don’t care if you believe in the soul – don’t get caught up in terms. Exchange the name for whatever is our ground of being, the core of our best possible humanity. I grieved for a soul so willing to display it’s fear and hatred, and filled with enough shame to hide its face. I wondered how that person could gather presents for their relatives and write Christmas cards of love and celebration with the black paint still staining their hands. Staining their soul. I think about the soul of someone who thinks that the way of Jesus includes making a whole city unwelcome. Who reads a story of compassion and healing and justifies that some are undeserving of help or healing. The soul of someone who sees the coming snow, and doesn’t think of those sleeping in tents as deserving of warmth. That soul is cold.
And that soul is my soul, too, of course. Who hasn’t turned away from a stranger asking for help, hiding behind judgements of deserving or undeserving? Who hasn’t hoped that the next shelter would be miles away from their house, their work, or their children’s school? Who hasn’t made a group an ‘other’ to fear, or a project to solve? It’s easy for me to focus (self proclaimed) righteous anger on an outspoken community pastor, or an anonymous sign holder, but each time I choose judgement or dismissal over compassion, my soul is wounded too.
Here too, we need compassion to heal us.
I wonder if our purest love is shown best in the darkest places. When a perfect outcome seems impossible, when we barely move the needle. When nothing is winnable or fixable, we have only our compassion, our desire to reduce the hurt. We touch the wound, and we are the ones who are healed.
I know that there is a place for a call to action. A call for businesses, communities, and organizations to partner. A call for personal responsibility, for those housed and unhoused. A place for compassionate municipal strategies. Power structures can change. Systems can ensure less people fall through the cracks. Outdated ideologies can be replaced. But our compassion must be non negotiable.
I know people who are sure they will see an end to homelessness. Their focus is unwavering, until they make it reality. But whether they are right or wrong, whether the numbers of unhoused decrease or increase, one thing I am sure of is this: they will work to that end with dedication and compassion until their dying day. With their every action, in a thousand different words, they will tell the soul in front of them: “you are deserving, and you are welcome here”.
Why read like a sucker? Click here and Matt will do all the work for you!
I was twelve before I discovered the love of writing. That’s not an especially novel age for discovery, but it did come as a bit of a shock. I was never much of a reader growing up. My comprehension was fine, not great, not outstanding. But my reading speed was slow. Still is. I would spend weeks or months with a simple novel, not hours or days like some of my friends.
Writing too, was painful. Literally painful.
I always held my pencil the wrong way, and try as I might, try as my parents might, I would always revert back to my incorrect, vice like grip. As if I were attempting to break the instrument in front of me, rather than allowing it to simply get out of the way of my imagination. I tried triangular molds for the front of the pencil or pen. I tried intentionally placing the pen in the correct grip before beginning. The finger placement would last exactly as long as I was thinking about it. But eventually you should start thinking about the words and the story, not the grip. And so I wrote, slowly and painfully and incorrectly.
More importantly, I never seemed to understand the construct of a story in the way many of my peers did. When I first discovered my love of writing, many of my peers were comfortably writing chapter stories with multiple characters and a central plot. It felt like looking at algebraic math equation you don’t understand (you know, the one with more letters than logically makes sense for a numeric problem). I could see that there was structure behind it all, but it just wasn’t accessible to me.
And then? Then I discovered poetry. And no high falutin pretentious poetry, either. My best friend gave me a collection of poems entitled,“A Light in the Attic” by Shel Silverstein.
Everything about Shel Silverstein was fun. I had no idea what I was holding at the time. What it might start within me. Silverstein felt like the spiritual successor to Dr. Suess. (I’m sure for many children, Silverstein and Suess are contemporaries, but I was amazingly unaware of Shel’s work until middle school). Like Suess, Silverstein was ridiculous, nonsensical, phonetic and playful. But occasionally touching on something much bigger than the simple rhyme at the surface. Both talked about racism, group think, and religion, but it was cleverly hid behind stanzas and made up words. And most importantly to me, Silverstein was accessible. Inviting, even.
In his poem, Invitation, Shel beckons to his audience to draw a little closer:
If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…
If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!
And so I did. I sat by Shel’s fire for a long while. I dreamed, I wished, I hoped, and I pretended. Here was someone I could emulate. Here was a poet that didn’t seem to take himself too seriously, whose language and stanza structure were simple. I started writing my own playful poems in the rhyming pattern of ABCB:
The stanza has a set of four.
The first and the third don’t rhyme.
The second and the fourth ones do.
You’ll have a poem in no time.
See? Not my best work, but it’s easy.
And that was enough. That was a math equation with no alphabet. That was the machinery, the structure getting out of the way. The medium that allowed the message. Any message in fact.
Writing about a crush on the girl that sits in front of you in english? That seemed the stuff of diaries, not literature. But as a set of stanzas? As a poem? In even such a simple rhyming format, my interest became playful, refined, and imminently palatable.
When we had to present a piece of writing in front of the class, most of my peers awkwardly stood up shaking, voices quivering, never making eye contact. They hurriedly read their stories in barely audible tones. Very few twelve year olds are good public speakers.
But when I had to present my work, a poem with cadence, and rhyme, I could feel the interest of my class. Poems gave me the format and permission to explore whatever I felt at the time. And a twelve year old feels a lot.
I became known for my poems. I don’t even think my poetry was especially insightful. But I was persistent. Each new crush, I wrote a poem (or seven) of unrequited love. I read the Poem “David”, and not liking it’s ending, wrote an alternate poem. I watched the movie “Murder in the First” and rhymed about the (imagined) experience of feeling hopeless and powerless in a jail cell. I tackled subjects as big as alcoholism and faith within those stanzas. I wrote year end presentations entirely in rhyme (which was neither required or encouraged, but met with middle school teacher shrugs).
Other people called me a poet, and I liked the identity. It’s not such a bad label for your ego if you tend to be a bit more introspective and emotional. But I always felt a disconnect with other, non rhyming poets.
I could fiddle with the structure of my poems, change around the ABCB for an ABBA (or some other combination of letters) but they always rhymed. The truth is, I didn’t understand most non rhyming poetry (which to state the absolutely obvious, is almost all poetry). When we studied them in class, I was once again lost. Not necessarily on the content, but why they were written as poems in the first place. When classmates would excitedly expect to find a poetic peer, they would hand me their non punctuated lines of seemingly random sentences, and I would smile, and thank them for sharing, and internally vow to never write a non rhyming poem.
Some non rhyming poetry focused on structure, and while I didn’t love the format, I at least understood it:
Looking back now, I think I was afraid. I had claimed the title of poet gladly, and here were others, alike and yet not alike. Familiar and yet foreign.Threatening my identity. I doubled down on my own particular poetic preference. Like so many things I didn’t understand, I held the inaccessible with disdain. If a poem could be anything, rhyming, not rhyming, plain or ambiguous, then anyone can write a poem, I thought.
Turns out, I was right.
Anyone can write a poem. From twelve year old Matt, to the celebrated and revered poets we study in our schools, to the unknown writer of the limerick within a dollar store birthday card. All poets.
But that doesn’t seem right, does it? It doesn’t seem right to lump in my ever rhyming middle school poetry with the works of Mary Oliver, or John Keats, or even Shel Silverstein. Neither does it seem right to include that mass produced, overly sentimentalized birthday card (to no one in particular) in the great and mystical category of poetry.
What I’m really asking (both then and now), is what sets poetry apart from mere rhyme or random pairings of words or sentences.What is the work of the poet?
The truth is, I didn’t have a good definition of what poetry was for years. And for years that lack of definition never bothered me. I wrote prolifically through middle school, high school and into my early twenties. And then I stopped.
Why I stopped has always been a matter of curiosity. My wife asks me suspiciously why there is so much poetry for ex-girlfriends, but next to none for her. I’ve joked that there’s not enough sorrow or heartbreak in our relationship to drive me back to the page/ keyboard.
But certainly there has been heartbreak outside of our marriage. I have lost friends, lost faith, lost children, lost which direction is up. These would certainly outweigh the impetus of my seventh grade heartache. Where are those poems?
Maybe the world appears less simple, or I am reluctant to simplify something as complex as those losses into a few simple stanzas. Maybe the only poetry I’ve ever known how to write is inadequate for such love, and loss, and anger, and even resolution.Ultimately, I think I stopped writing poems because I stopped believing I was a poet.
We all can fall victim to imposter syndrome from time to time, when we feel unworthy for the identities we have already received and claimed. Nothing brings this to the forefront quicker than realizing how little you understand something you are passionate about. I stopped believing I was a poet because my view of poetry was too small. I had not done the work of understanding what poetry was. I had been practicing a very specific ‘what’, and’ how’, but had never understood the ‘why’.
And a focus on the ‘how’ and the ‘what’ are especially unhelpful when it comes to poetry. Think about what poetry is for a second. Rhyming? Doesn’t have to. A certain rhythm? Not necessarily. Distinguishable sentence and punctuation structure? Actually, poetry gets a pass on that as well. It seems that the one distinguishing trait that a poem must possess, is that it is not prose. That’s a strange way to define something; by what it’s not.
Now, there may be an agreed upon rules for poetry that I don’t know about. I’m not an English major. But that’s the ‘how’ again. Coutless poets and readers have asked what makes a poem a poem, and have come to only partial agreement. And when you ask the question, “what is poetry”, you’re really asking, “why is this a poem, and not anything else?”. I love the question, and I love each attempt at the answer. Even if each answer proves inadequate.
Some of our greatest words have no adequate definition. Love, Art, Divinity, Poetry. The unnamable becomes ever polyonamous, having many names. This is why Love is a feeling, but not just a feeling. It’s commitment, but not just commitment. Joy, but not just joy. If love exists at all, it is not merely any of these things. But it might include all of them. We keep throwing these words at it, and all of them are inadequate. But we have to keep trying. Put another name on it. Turn the gem and see it from another angle.
A few years back a piece of poetry caught me off guard. It was less than a page in length (with a good deal of white space in between stanzas and sentences). The words that it used were pedestrian. But it spoke to a great paradox inside of me. A paradox that many have grappled with and written volumes about. And yet it spoke far more directly and truthfully than anything else I had read on the subject. That was a poem by David Whyte, who suggests that “poetry is that to which we have no defense”. I have found this to be a very good metric. Whether it is from Whyte, Oliver, Rilke, Silverstein or Suess, each has whispered in my ear something beautiful, something true, and something to which I have no defense.
That poem, and it’s revelation, was another invitation. Just like Shel Silverstein’s in grade 12. An invitation back into a world of poetry. To come sit by it’s fire again. Back into a genre that is entirely different than the novel, the interview, the short story. This time I huddled around the fire much more humbly. Not as an imitator or pretender, but as someone beginning to understand the ‘why’ for the first time. It is enough.
Each poem is gamble, of course. Will this poem be open to me? Will I understand it? Will it speak to me? Will it reveal something? Will I be defenceless against its revelation? Some poems remain shrouded. Some skim the surface. And some undo me.
And then just the other day, I sat at my computer and wrote. I found myself writing something that was not a post, not a short story, not a chapter in some far off unreleased book. It was profoundly honest, and therefore beautiful. It came from a place I am only vaguely aware of, either deep within, or even outside of myself. Something less crafted by me, and more gifted to me. Something to which I had no defence.
“A poet, after all”, I thought, smiling and wiping the tears from my eyes.
Click to hear Matt soothingly read this post to you…
The funny thing about comedians is… well, everything, hopefully.
The first time I heard the comedian Pete Holmes speak, it was on his podcast, He was asking his guest if he thought it was game over when we die. I wasn’t sure if there would be a punchline. There was none. Just an eager conversation about consciousness, the eternal soul, Christianity, Hinduism, Sex, and hallucinogenic drugs.
It doesn’t take long listening to his “You Made It Weird” podcast, or watching any of his standupspecials to realize that Pete Holmes is an open book.
In addition to the many hours of podcast interviews and stand up specials with this man, I listened to his book, “Comedy Sex God”, with my wife on a recent roadtrip. I’m not sure exactly what got cut out, but Pete kept a lot in.
Mr Holmes’ candor is a little alarming. He has a bit in both his book and his first comedy special about being afraid of the rapture. Or specifically, a fear of Jesus returning from the clouds as he’s masturbating. Of the “second coming while he’s going for his first”, as he likes to refer to it.
If that makes you uncomfortable, you’re in good company. It makes me uncomfortable too. He places ideas and concepts next to each other that seemingly do not belong. He seems to radically accept that which sounds shameful. Things that most of us would keep seperate, if not hidden completely.
But that’s hardly abnormal for a comedian. Comedy often shines a spotlight on the absurd, the embarrassing, the taboo. The comedian is tasked with mining all the things we might think, but never say. And Pete Holmes is undoubtedly a comedian. After all, nervous laughter is still laughter, right?
Lots of comedians talk about religion and spirituality. When you’re looking for the seemingly absurd, religion is a deep well of material. Neither are comedians alone in these observations. As less and less of the population affiliates with organized religion, more and more people are speaking about about how strange and or harmful their experience of religion has been. And whether these voices identify as exvangelical or simply had a front row seat to the strangeness, they are now prominently (and understandably), nontheist or antitheist.
But Pete? Petey boy is a believer. Maybe even an evangelist. Sure, he won’t come a knocking at your door on a Saturday morning in his fresh pressed collared t-shirt and tie, nor will you find him on an inspirational cable TV channel on Sunday morning with an unnaturally wide smile and perfect teeth. But if you listen to his podcast, you won’t make it through an episode without an in depth conversation about the nature of reality, whether there is something more to us than our brains and chemicals, and what might happen to us after we die. Pete loves it. You can hear it in his voice. And after asking the same questions of every guest (most of whom are also staunch atheists), he never seems to tire of it.
Even in his youth, Pete describes being enamored with the question “what is this?”. THIS. The miracle of life, consciousness, meaning, direction. The whole shebang. THIS-NESS. Thinking and talking about THIS has been a driving force for Pete’s entire life. His Catholic and Protestant Christian upbringing, his loss of faith and identifying as an atheist, his trips on hallucinogenic drugs, his transcendental experience with a Hindu mystic and teacher, and his eventual reincorporation of his earliest faith have all come together to help Pete approach that one nagging question: “What is This?”. And while the answers have changed and evolved and expanded, the question never has.
Considering Pete’s candor and great honesty about his journey, I wonder how many believers would consider Pete’s path to the Divine illegitimate. Many of the churches I have known would teach a masterclass on how not to live based on Pete Holmes testimony. Many believers I have known would probably refer to his “belief” (quotations intentional and deriding) as a smorgasbord of spirituality. A little from over here, a bit from over there, pick and choose as you like. They would see his acceptance of hallucinogenic drugs and extramarital sex (that’s sex outside of marriage, not extra sex in a a marriage…) as moral relativism, a complete loss of absolute values.
I can still hear those chiding voices in my head because I have said those exact same things. I still have these same uninvited thoughts and judgments.
Imagine a fellow evangelist knocks on Pete’s door this Saturday morning. The man has his pressed white collared shirt, his suit and his tie. He holds a colored pamphlet outlining his church’s upcoming event, or theological stance on some philosophical concern. He smiles warmly as he extends the paper to Pete and expresses that God loves him and wants to know and be known by him. Pete breaks into an impossible grin, and responding exclaims “Fantastic, I’ll grab us some mushrooms. We can go hang out with God together!”.
The man, his smile fading, pamphlet withdrawing, removes himself from Pete’s doorstep with the final words, “you’re doing it wrong”.
And that’s the key, isn’t it? There is an instinctive sense that there is a right and a wrong, or a healthy and unhealthy way to do all things, including how we interact with the concept of the divine. Perhaps this is why we have hundreds, if not thousands (depending on your definition) of denominations within Christianity alone.
And this instinctive judgement is important! Not all beliefs are made equal. Even the most strident anti-theist would agree that some approaches are more beneficial or more disastrous than others.
So it’s easy to understand and even identify with the ones calling out the boundaries. The authority figures telling the Petes of the world that they’re doing it wrong. I understand those who hold apprehension and concern when it comes to such unexpected and taboo approaches and inclusions. I understand those who uphold the importance of orthodoxy. I understand the need for gatekeepers.
But here’s the thing about gatekeepers. Gatekeepers can get really, really focused on right and wrong, in and out, orthodox and heretical. They can become so focused on the correct process that they lose the purpose. Maybe they make the mistake of believing that their journey is the only journey. Maybe they begin to look for for certainty instead of surprise. when They lose their “what is this”?-ness.
I’m not saying that Pete Holmes found the secret sauce. I’m not a Holmes-etarian, or Holmes-ian. I’m not saying that the best way to interact with the Divine is a Catholic/ Protestant Christian upbringing, Christian college, sex shame, an early marriage to the first person you were physical with, the subsequent ending of that marriage due to neglect and infidelity, the adoption of atheism, the pursuit of a career in stand up, a hallucinogenic experience with mushrooms, a mystic experience with Ram Das, a series of sexual relationships aimed at removing previous sex shame, a reading of multiple works by Joseph Cambell, Richard Rohr and Rob Bell, and an eventual arrival at a ‘Christ leaning hindu informed belief’ in the divine.
(Whew. That’s a mouthful. I just saved you $15 dollars and between 6-10 hours, depending on your reading or listening speed. Just kidding. It’s a great read/ listen, and Pete is a comedian, so it’s laugh out loud funny).
Pete’s the first to say that people shouldn’t try to do it like him. And I’m pretty sure that Pete doesn’t care whether he’s doing it wrong. I’m pretty sure that Pete hears that his approach, his methods or his beliefs are wrong on a regular basis. Maybe from his parents, maybe from old acquaintances from years past, maybe from congregants of his old church that he visits on Easter or Christmas, maybe online.
I don’t think Pete cares if he’s doing it right, because he’s busy doing it. He’s asking the big questions that animate and excite him. He’s interacting with the divine. He’s trying to break out of a dualistic mindset. And he’s telling anyone who will listen about all of it. Warts and all.
Pete relates how when he was finishing up his book, his mom was excited because she could give it to her church’s pastor to explain her son’s journey, validate his roundabout way of returning to belief in Jesus, the Christ, and the bible.
Pete’s response? “Mom, it’s not for the pastor. It’s for people who lost their faith, but still catch themselves quietly alone in the car going, ‘what is this’? They’re not done.”
They’re not done. Not done with wonder, with meaning, with mystery, with awe.
