Bibliography XVI

 “Shattered Love” – Richard Chamberlain

My best friend in junior high was a huge fan of Richard Chamberlain, otherwise I would have little to no idea who he is. In case you don’t know, he played Dr Kildare on TV in the 1960s, graduated to leading man status on film in the 1970s, and was king of the TV miniseries in the 1980s. Handsome, charismatic, and possessed of a voice like a blend of milk and dark chocolate, in his day he earned the admiration and adulation of fans – particularly female ones – pretty much everywhere.

His autobiography was published in 2003. Media around its release seemed more focused on his coming out than anything else he had to say, and I confess the press combined with the book’s title conspired to have me avoid it like the plague. I mean, “shattered love” in the context of a celebrity coming out could only mean one thing: a “poor pitiful me” tell-all where the intimate (sordid?) details of his hidden life were finally revealed.

I did the man a severe disservice by thinking those things. Turns out the book is more about his spiritual journey than it is about secretly being gay in his line of work (though he tells some dandy stories about his career, too). There is nothing whiny or pitiful about it. In fact, he gives an objective, completely honest account of life as the younger son of a difficult man, of growing up and living for decades with a major inferiority complex, and of his continuing path to inner peace. And he tells it all with a gentle, self-deprecating humour that in no way negates his eventual discovery and acceptance of his true self.

This guy is practically a guru. I related to much of his story, from his description of a complicated Life with Father right down to his faith in a loving, friendly and generous Universe. The title “Shattered Love” reflects his belief that each of us represents a shard of one singular love so immense that it shattered itself in order to experience its own existence. Or something like that. He certainly subscribes to the same theory as me, that we are as divine as we are connected to the Divinity who created us. God exists around us and apart from us and within us all at once.

I learned a lot from reading this book, especially about the nature of forgiveness and when it applies. I actually learned a whole lot more than I ever expected to learn from a movie star’s memoir, and I am eternally grateful for the lessons.

I do wonder, though, what my junior high bestie would think ...

Soul Food?

 

Quitting sugar is a bit like quitting booze. It can be awkward in a social situation. My office tea buddy is a treat freak who can rationalize herself into committing any form of dietary misdemeanour. “I’ve earned it” or “I deserve it” are two of her favourites, and she is notorious – or was, in the before times – for enticing co-workers with bowls of chips, boxes of cookies, and plates of gourmet doughnuts cut into bite-sized pieces (aka “quarters”). She’d often IM me with alluring details of a new chocolate bar she discovered at lunch, ending with a coy “Want some?” that I rarely resisted.

In truth, my powers of resistance are stronger than everything except my desire to please, so when the offer of some new sugary discovery was extended, I accepted to be polite. I do hate to disappoint people.

Still, when I recently told her that I’m off sugar for health reasons, she made all the right supportive noises before she said, “Well, the time will come when you have to surrender—just once—for the sake of your soul.”

Treats are comfort food, and comfort food is comforting for a reason. It’s emotionally gratifying. Soul food, as it were, being good for your soul because it feels good, period.

Oh, but wait a minute. As I understand it, my soul resides in but is not part of the compostable container. Being the spark of divinity that binds me to the Universe and all living things, it’s the one thing I will take with me when I leave. My soul needs attention, sure, but not in the form of food. It needs no physical nourishment. It certainly isn’t prone to sugar cravings that will wreck my mind and my body for hours after a treat is consumed in seconds. It just isn’t.

What is, however, is the sneaky little part of my brain that resides just out of sight behind my ears. Known to neurologists as the amygdale, it’s been described by one expert as “the toddler in the room” where demands, tantrums, addictions, and primal emotions like fear and anger reside. It’s the part of my makeup that claims comfort from food and will say anything to get it. Including “I’ve earned this”, “I deserve this”, or “My soul needs this”.

Clever, eh? How it uses first-person logic to negotiate and get its way? It actually tries to trick me into believing that a brownie will make me feel better when in truth that brownie will a) not taste as good as I remember and b) make me sluggish and crabby for the rest of the day. Why would my soul want to feel like crap? Well, it doesn’t. My soul knows what’s good for me and my body, and my prefrontal cortex (aka “the parent in the room”) concurs. It’s the voice that says,

“Away with you, Princess Amygdale. You’re busted.”

Heavenward

Why do we look up at Heaven?

When we address the Almighty, we are taught to bow our heads in a show of submission to a higher authority, but I no longer consider myself subordinate to God. I am born of Divinity; not exactly on equal terms, but most definitely worthy of eye contact with the Creator.

Assuming the Creator has eyes. I am unsure of the form one takes outside this physical dimension. It seems likelier that man has made God in his image rather than the other way around, and though I can’t say for sure what God looks like, I recognize without question that he exists in some form or other.

I also digress.

Despite my preference for face to face conversation, one day I found myself looking at the ceiling while speaking to (insert iconic nomenclature here), and the question occurred: Why?

Well, I thought, the heavens are above, aren’t they?

Are they?

“Parallel dimension” means side by side, not above or below, so doesn’t it make sense that our otherworldly ancestors, angels, spirit guides, deities, etc. occupy the same space with us albeit in a different realm? Why else do I look at the empty chair by the fireplace when tossing off a comment aimed at the other side? I must sense my guardian angel seated there, otherwise my gaze would go elsewhere.

Like “up”.

If you believe Heaven lies on the far side of the sky, by all means, look up when you seek it … but what about the folks in the southern hemisphere? Our Up is their Down, so where the heck is Heaven?

I think it might be here.

It’s in the taste of chocolate. It’s reflected in a stranger’s smile. It rings in a child’s laughter. It warms the hug of a friend. It smells of sun on hot pavement. It chimes in birdsong. It lingers in silence.

Why do we seek Heaven above when it’s present with us? Look around instead of up—and you just might catch an angel’s eye.

With love,

The Year of Being Human

Twelve months ago, Ter and I stood in our kitchen and proclaimed 2018 “the Year of Transition and Change”. She was on the cusp of committing to retire from the public service, my job had settled down after a major shift in program staff, my wee sis and I were planning to visit our brother on Prince Edward Island. There was some concern over a nodule in Mum’s forearm, but the experts were confident—as was she—that it would amount to naught. In all, the new year seemed full of promise and adventure, and we were ready to tackle all the good things we envisioned.

Perhaps we should have been more specific. Perhaps we should have proclaimed 2018 as a year of positive transition and change.

Ter’s intention to cruise into retirement went south when she was called to be shop steward in an ugly harassment case. I lost my office and was moved into a shared space when branch staff expanded beyond the eighth floor’s capacity. Though Mum’s radiation treatment appeared to be a success in February, after a couple of months of normal, she fell ill and died four weeks after Ter’s last day at work. Wee sis and I cancelled our trip to PEI—she had injured her back while helping Dad care for Mum, and quite frankly, the shock was so overwhelming that we reeled through the summer and well into the fall. That’s when our landlord let us know she was thinking to sell the suite. Ter tweaked a muscle in her neck at Thanksgiving and was laid up into November. The Tiguan went into the shop for an expensive overnight service—twice. The postal dispute threatened Christmas delivery of cards and parcels ... and I’m sure I’ve forgotten something in the continuous monsoon of WTF? we endured throughout 2018, but that’s the gist of our Year of Transition and Change.

Keeping the faith was pretty darned challenging during the past twelve months. It’s easy to believe in a loving friendly and generous Universe when all is going smoothly. The tricky part is seeing the light in darkness. The majority of 2018 was, for me, a battle against a pervading sense of loss. Every night, I struggled to maintain my belief in being loved by a higher power, to trust that things happen for a reason, when they are meant to happen, and to know the rest of my life will not be spent gaping into a black hole. The gauge on my power of positivity has hovered perilously close to empty at times. I have cried more in the past months than I have in past years. I have raged at the heavens and thrown up my hands. I have stormed and begged and dug deep to get through the past turbulent, tumultuous, unexpectedly tragic fifty-two weeks.

And yet I have seen miracles. Small ones, to be sure, but miracles nonetheless. I will always remember the preternatural brilliance of the day after my mother died; how sharply defined and brilliantly hued the world appeared through the Ocean Room window. I will cherish forever the kindness and support I was shown by my friends and co-workers, people who rarely see me vulnerable yet rose to the occasion when I could not help myself. Christmas presents appeared from nowhere at the last minute, as did emails from loved ones after long silences. And others, too numerous to name. Feeling my mother’s presence in the room. Ter’s parking karma. Being able to pay cash for Tiggy’s repairs. Having a beautiful place to call home. Laughing with my office roomie, then going for tea with her because we like each other enough to be more than workmates. Hugging my little sister. The list goes on.

Though I almost lost it more than once, I managed to keep my grip on the thread that binds me to divinity. I still believe in something greater than myself, that all-encompassing presence that some call God. In truth, I’m no longer sure what to call it. I just know it’s there, that I am part of it and it is part of me—and of everyone else who is, who was, and who will be. For me, 2018 was all about the human experience and it truly sucked ... but I survived. I’m not through it yet, of course. The calendar doesn’t control time, it merely marks it. By all counts, I am only halfway through the process of reconciling myself to the tectonic changes that occurred in the past twelve months, so the drama ain’t over yet. I am relieved to say, however, that the light is more evident now than it was even three months ago.

It occurred to me on Christmas Eve, the most magical night of the year, that miracles are like stars strewn across a midnight sky:

The longer you spend staring up at them, the more begin to appear, and soon the entire night is bright with light.

Isn’t that wonderful?

Happy New Year.

With love,

A Face in the Crowd

It was recently pointed out to me that while I am the protagonist in my own story, I also play various roles in the stories of others: a supporting role with Ter, a lesser yet still supporting role with family and the workplace, the occasional walk-on in someone else’s story, and an extra in the crowd scenes.

One day I was waiting for Ter in the mall. We had agreed to meet near Starbucks after our shopping was done, so I found a spot at a counter overlooking the food court and proceeded to consider my options. Should I plug into my phone? Think about a snack? Ponder what sort of novel to get at the bookstore? Hmmmm … As I was thinking, my gaze wandered aimlessly over the scene before me and something weird occurred: a face jumped out at me.

Not a familiar face. Not a face I knew. Not an extraordinary face. Just a face, the face of a random stranger in a communal space. And as I contemplated this unknown face, other faces started popping into focus. The guy wolfing a Teen Burger by himself. The salesclerk on a break with her iPhone in hand. The elderly couple splitting a doughnut with their coffees. The gaggle of similarly clad teens trying not to stand out while preserving their individuality. The little boy trailing after his parents and older sister, looking somewhat bewildered by the hectic bustle of everyone around him.

I love to write crowd scenes and here I was, observing one. Yet I was acutely aware that within the current moment a hundred separate dramas were being enacted, each one weightier and relevant to its central character, who, like me, also happened to be a bit player in the bigger picture. And each person was powered by the same divine spark that powers me, everyone on a separate path that, by necessity, will crisscross others as it proceeds.

It was like an out-of-body experience, sitting on the sidelines yet sensing the combined energy of all those strangers. In fact, I was contributing to that combined energy through my connection to the rest of the cast! I had no idea who any of them were, but I sensed the thread that linked us. It was at once bizarre and cool—and a little disarming. I was quite relieved when Ter appeared in the tableau. Her familiarity gave me a comforting focus that shrank my expansive musing to something more manageable. All those individual faces melted back into anonymity and I became the lead in my own story once more.

The feeling has stayed with me, though I admit I rarely pay conscious attention to people on the street. But sometimes, when I least expect it, on the bus or in a lineup or even on a street corner, waiting for the light to change, I’ll meet a stranger’s eyes and feel the snap! of our shared divinity. Yup, it’s disconcerting—but it’s also a reminder that we are all connected, one and the same, no matter where our stories take us.

Don’t Look Back

Last week, I watched Bill Maher and his four guests—two Democrats and two Republicans—argue back and forth about their upcoming election and what’s wrong with both candidates. The US is in a sticky pickle because, as I see it, the voting public is caught between a Trump and a hard place. When faced with two evils, folks generally choose the lesser one ... but in this race, how can you tell which is which?

No matter. I’m Canadian. My problem comes after the US election, when everyone else in the world has to deal with the outcome of their decision.

It was interesting, however, to hear people on both sides trying to outshout each other about “taking America back”, “getting America back”, and “reclaiming America”. One of them referred to regaining the country originally intended by the founding fathers.

Are you kidding me??? The country was founded over two hundred years ago, by privileged white European males who drew up a Constitution that would serve their interests and no one else’s. Think about it. When the country was formed, the only Africans in America were slaves, women were chattel, and the native Americans had been driven off their land by the guests they had welcomed but who refused to leave. The paperwork wasn’t written for anyone within those three groups. The right to bear arms meant that colonists on the frontier could defend themselves instead of waiting for the cavalry to ride over the hill. And they were pretty much defending themselves from the indigenous residents, so I’m of two minds on the fairness of the policy in the first place.

If I have learned anything in the past couple of years, it’s that nothing is ever going to be the same again. You cannot get back to the way it was because the way it is has changed so radically that previous rules can no longer apply. Society can’t rely on a document that was written in the dark ages because that document was written for the dark ages. Respect its purpose, sure, but then improve upon it, for crying out sideways!

We are not here to stay the same. We are not here to live in the past. We are here to move forward, to embrace each other and create something better than what we had yesterday (and I don’t mean building a better iPhone). Cleaving to an outdated document is not the way to fix today’s problems. One might even suggest that cleaving to that document is what created today’s problems. The world in 2016 is not remotely similar to the world in 1776 or whenever. Can we please leave that old world behind and work with each other to make something wondrous of the one we have?

Because it is wondrous. People are amazingly diverse, but our diversity is not what makes us magnificent. Our shared divinity is what make us magical. We are each capable of love, of compassion, of respect and gratitude and kindness. Our culture does not make us any of those things. Neither does our history. We should be using those things as starting points from which to grow and change ... but even as I write this, I realize that I might be missing my own point.

We are spiritual beings having a human experience. We are born divine. Many of us lose sight of it along the way. If time truly is cyclical and we are moving in circles, then perhaps we do want to go back to somewhere in the past. Let’s go further back than two measly centuries. Let’s go back to where we truly started, when we were born pure and untainted, radiant with love and no conditions, when we knew in our souls that all we needed to make a success of this life was to exercise our divinity and treat each other ...

... with love.