Hallow Won't

 

Move Hallowe'en?? Horrors!

There’s an underground rumbling that suggests the scariest night of the year be moved from the last day of October to the last Saturday of October.

WTF?

Granted, the rumbling comes from disgruntled parents and teachers who are inconvenienced by managing children jacked on sugar the day after Hallowe’en, but it also indicates a lack of understanding about the day itself and why it exists in the first place.

“Hallowe’en” is the contracted form of “All Hallow’s Eve”, “All Hallows” being November 1, otherwise known as “All Saints Day” on the religious calendar.

Did I say “religious”? Yes, and I meant to say it. And I’m not apologizing, either. I may not be conventionally religious, but I do enjoy the holidays and observances associated with (and some say stolen from) annual celebrations of spring, fall, and winter.

I wonder why no one bothered to Christianize the summer solstice.

I digress.

Hallowe’en happens on October 31 for a reason. It’s not about the candy. Okay, maybe now it is, but originally, it was the last chance day in the year for evil spirits to work their nefarious magic on innocent souls before the saints came marching in on November 1. The dead rose to walk again, witches cast wicked spells and Satan roamed free. Folks dressed up to fool said evil spirits – and their earthbound minions – on the premise that they wouldn’t be recognized and the spirits would bypass them. That’s where the tradition of Hallowe’en costumes come from. In truth, I’m unsure where the trick-or-treat thing started, though it’s likely rooted in the same occasion, and candy was not the anticipated outcome. Successfully dodging the demons was.

The Easter argument doesn’t support moving October 31, either. Easter happens in coincidence with Passover, an event dependent on the lunar cycle, which is not attached to a static date. Candy wasn’t the anticipated outcome at Easter or Passover, either, by the way. I’m not at all sure where chocolate fits into history though, being a fool for Cadbury Creme eggs, I do appreciate its presence in the modern era.

If it hasn’t become obvious by now, I’m all for keeping Hallowe’en where it is. If anything needs to change, perhaps getting rid of trick-or-treat is the answer. After all, I’m not the only one who’s been buzzed on Hallowe’en candy since August!

Retro Manifestation

 

I had just graduated from high school when I agreed to attend a young adult function at our church. My family had been inactive for years, but the opportunity to expand my social circle arose as I was contemplating my future as a grown up. Get a job, my own apartment, eventually a car (I had yet to get my driver’s license), and start contributing to society. Oh—and find a mate. A husband for sure, but I’d be happy with a steady boyfriend. Or even a first date. I’d had boy friends in school, but never a boyfriend. I guess I’d had other priorities ... or the boys had. In any case, once I was free of the Class of ’79, the field widened considerably.

It sounds appallingly old-fashioned, but I clearly remember thinking the invitation, extended by a missionary couple who was hosting the group, might be the gateway to finding Mr Right. So I accepted.

He wasn’t there that week, or the next week, or the week after that. I attended a bunch of those gatherings, meeting people my own age but no one who asked me out. Even after I was eventually baptized, the fabled future husband did not appear. I was neither impressed by nor impressive to the slender field of potential patriarchs for a family of my own, though I did have a blast on the social scene in general. At least I can say I had as much fun in my twenties as other girls had in theirs, only without the bars, clubs, discos and alcoholic accelerants. Best of all, I met my Ter. Inseparable for more than a year before my dad suggested we get our own place, what began as a temporary arrangement is still going strong almost forty years later.

Only now do I see the magical manifestation of my original intention. It’s taken me almost forty years to realize that when I accepted the invitation to that young adult gathering, I was going to meet my life partner. I simply lacked the imagination to envision something—someone—who would punt the standard from the park. In fact, who I got was so marvellously unexpected that I am in a perpetual state of gratitude for my incredible good fortune. This lifetime relationship has worked out far better than I had anticipated, and probably better than I deserve.

I like to think that Ter feels similarly about me, though the one thing I am sure of is that, in 1980, the Universe read my intention to find my soulmate ... and smiled.

For Christ’s Sake

Overheard at a Thai restaurant: “I’m not religious, but I am spiritual.”

I get that, I thought. Then I wondered at the difference.

According to my ancient Webster’s dictionary, the adjective religious is defined as: “1. one that believes in or supports a religion; devout; pious; 2. of or concerned with religion (eg., religious books); 3. belonging to a community of monks, nuns, etc; 4. conscientiously exact; scrupulous.”

The adjective spiritual is defined as: “1. of the spirit or soul as distinguished from the body or material matters; 2. of or consisting of spirit; not corporeal; 3. refined in thought or feeling; 4. of religion or the church; sacred; devotional etc. 5. spiritualistic or supernatural.”

Interesting. The word “spiritual” does not appear in the definition of “religious”, and the word “religion” only appears in one of five possibilities under “spiritual”.

I recently learned that the religion into which I was baptized at the age of eighteen is not accepted as a Christian religion by other Christian religions. This is alternately hilarious and disturbing. It doesn’t bother me a whole lot, as I’ve been long inactive due to my issues with the church rather than with anything Jesus taught, but when I do think about it, I am a little annoyed. No matter what other Christians think, I took my baptismal vows to confirm my faith in the teachings and divine mission of Jesus Christ ... so how could I not be considered a Christian? Especially by other Christians?

But you know, I’ve always been a goat among sheep. Even when I was an active churchgoer, I refused to accept that my deeds would be judged by anyone other than God Himself. When my father gently suggested the Almighty might be too busy to manage my exit interview personally, I replied: “I’ll have all Eternity. I can wait.”

I have known many religious people. Few of them are truly happy. They are hard on others and harder on themselves. They keep their gazes down rather than their gazes up, as if fearing to meet the eye of God—and given the god presented in the Bible, I can’t say I blame them. The Old Testament God is not a nice guy. In fact, in human form, he’d probably have had his children removed by social workers until he completed a course in anger management and could prove himself a worthy parent. Seriously. Love born from fear is not love at all. Even we ignorant mortals know that, so Dad Above shouldn’t be surprised that his kids have abandoned him. They deserve better.

I know a few spiritual people, too. Most of them are happier than the devoutly religious folks, but every soul that is or ever was is here to experience contrast and most of us have as many dark days as we do sunny ones. Jesus was a spiritual person. These days I am less assured of parts of his story than I am in others, but I will not deny he was a light being with an extraordinary connection to his divinity. It’s unfortunate that his darkness was not as well recorded; relating to him as a conflicted human is difficult when he’s only ever portrayed as the solemn master of his mortal state. Of course his death was horrible, but he wasn’t the only one crucified in those days. The Romans practically made a sport of it.

I know, I know—his story is really about the Resurrection.

Or is it? Well, maybe, in that it seems many of his present-day followers strive to be worthy of his sacrifice by behaving in complete opposition to his lessons about loving thy neighbour as thyself and judging not lest ye be judged. Since our sins have already been atoned for, why not transgress with gay abandon knowing he gave us a free pass back to Heaven?

Ironically, I may be more of a Christian now than I was in my churchgoing days. I focus more on what he taught while he was alive than what religion says we won by his death (and even then, it has to be the “right” religion, otherwise it’s “do not pass Go, do not collect $200”). I prefer to trust in his loving way, in his sound sense of his own divinity and his efforts to convince everyone he met that they were just as precious, just as special, just as beloved, just as deserving of blessings, as he was.

As I am.

As you are.

With love,

Our Lady

I am the spire that stood for 850 years. A beacon of hope, a symbol of faith, a call to God. A steadfast, enduring testament to a greater, unconditional, universal love.

A billion lives have been lived around me. I am a marker from all sides, a destination for some, a sanctuary for others, never changing and ever present to all. I have survived rebellion, revolution, conquest and occupation. I have witnessed violence against the innocents and man’s inhumanity to man.

I bear my own scars, evidence of repair and recovery over decades of existence.

I am beautiful. Magical. Wondrous. Beloved. Admired. Appreciated for my age, my art, and the comfort in my presence. You may not share my faith, yet you’ve known me all your life. I have always been and always will be.

So you thought.

When the flames came too close, when the fire burned too hot, I was consumed. I toppled.

I fell through the roof and disappeared from sight.

Am I no more?

With love, with time, with compassion and support, with my gods’ help, I will stand once more.

Not as I was. I will be changed for the better. I will be stronger. Brighter. Built to code for a world bent on grinding me to dust.

My purpose remains though my remains be gone.

Avec plus d’amour,

Giving Up for Lent

I’m learning that being better and being different are not the same thing. I can choose to be better than I am, but I cannot make myself be different from what I am.

What I am is, as you are, human.

When Spirit Ru ordered her compostable container for this go-round, she chose the Virgo options package—the gory details available in any astrological writing, but the best description I’ve found being in The Secret Language of Birthdays by Gary Goldschneider and Joost Elffers. While reading the profile of those born on September 2, I wondered how two complete strangers could possibly have nailed every facet of my personality. At my mortal worst, I can be fussy, judgemental, cynical, moody, unyielding and/or explosive. Not pretty.

I can also be generous, compassionate, loving, fair and authentic. The pros might make a shorter list than the cons, but the items indicated on the former weigh more than those on the latter. (My story and I’m sticking to it). I suspect most of the pros came with me from Before. The real challenge lies in mastering my dark side. I can be brutally intolerant, and authenticity is not always a positive trait. Staying on top of my human is truly a practice and some days are doomed. I am especially harsh at fiscal year end, when the stress of balancing the books at work chisels away at my sense of humour, not to mention my patience and normally egalitarian nature.

So, for Lent this year, I thought I’d try to dial it back a bit. Despite neither of us being Catholic, Ter has been studying up on it, and her research suggested that, rather than giving up something like sugar or cigarettes, why not try to be better at something like, say, forgiveness? What a great idea! Don’t make it a sacrificial, negative thing. Put a positive spin on it and improve in a more spiritual way. I can do this, I thought, especially since I’m already working on being more Zen!

Alas, by 7:45 a.m. on Ash Wednesday, Ter had said to me, “There you go again,” three times.

Then I arrived at work. During our mid-morning check in, I burst out ranting about some hare-brained new policy and she said, “There you go again.”

D-oh! Recalibrating ...

I realized something in the following few days. Good bad or indifferent, Virgo Ru is apparently here to stay. I can practice improving on my human, but I will not be able to change it. Nor should I; it’s part of what I am, if not who, and the beauty of this life lies in its flexibility. Every day is a fresh start. The day before doesn’t count and tomorrow doesn’t matter. I’ll never be different from what I am, but by being more mindful, I can be better than I am.

Wish me luck.

With love,

Relax Your Face

An old friend once observed that crazy people don’t smile. If that’s so, then the majority of us are bordering on the brink. Pope Francis recommends those who claim to have Jesus in their hearts may want to notify their faces—the same could be said to anyone professing Islamic, Buddhist or otherwise enlightened tendencies. As for smiling faces during the holiday season, yeah, right. I once worked with a kid who said she had the crabbiest customers of the year during her Christmas gig at Starbucks. So much for joy, peace and goodwill to all.

Relax your face. While you’re at it, drop your shoulders and inhale until your ribcage swells—but if that’s too much, just do the face. Do it, ’cause I bet you have no idea how tense your face is, and when it’s tense, it’s probably frowning. Or scowling. Or anxious. One thing is sure: it ain’t smiling.

I’m not suggesting you walk through life with a goofy grin in place. That would be unrealistic, not to mention ridiculous. I am suggesting, however, that a couple of times a day, take a minute to soften the muscles in your face, maybe even conjure a little smile while you’re folding laundry or mixing a batch of muffins. I tried it while disentangling Christmas tree lights and my BP improved in the same instant as my mood.

You must be aware of your face before you can soften it, however, so paying attention is the first step—especially in a neutral position, i.e., when you’re not engaged in some emotional hijinks or concentrating on a math problem. Try it when you’re alone and see for yourself: relaxing your face relaxes everything. It won’t solve your problems, but it softens a resistant stance. You might even feel a little better, too.

How can that be bad?

Jesus is My Guy

When you collect spiritual teachers as if they’re butterflies or stamps, it’s easy to be considered a bit of an addict. Take Wayne Dyer. Add Eckhart Tolle. Discover Thich Nhat Hanh. Around and in between are Denise Linn, Brian Weiss, Deepak Chopra, Gregg Braden, Louise Hay, and a heavenly host of others, including – believe it or not – Albert Einstein. There are others whose names are lost to me now, though what nuggets of wisdom they dispensed at the time have likely become part of my present day vernacular. But it started with Jesus.

He was the first of my spiritual teachers, though what I learned in church wasn’t so much about him as it was about following the rules in order to be worthy of his sacrifice. He was not presented as a teacher. He was the Son of God and I was the sinning scum whose hopeless imperfection doomed me to eternal darkness, except he gave his life to ensure my ticket to heaven. He was a remote figure, an icon used to keep me humble, obedient, and paying my tithe. I was told that Jesus loved me ... but only if I behaved. Did I resent that message? Sometimes. Did I blame Jesus?

Doesn’t matter. Compared to Ter, I was a Philistine. She actually knew the gospel. You couldn’t fool her with doctrine. She embraced the religion, but she didn’t really need it because she is a naturally spiritual person. Despite being from a distinctly non-religious family, she has felt close to Jesus since she was tiny. She is fascinated by the time in which he lived, by the historic and archaeological evidence of his existence, and by the lost gospels conveniently kept out of the Bible. She’s read lots of books and watched countless documentaries. She speaks of him with familiarity and genuine affection, but never, ever, with disrespect. His position in her spiritual pantheon is unshakeably secure. Her regard for him is wonderful and amazing and inspiring. It also borders on the comical when she happily announces that her Jesus package is on its way from Amazon and she hopes it arrives by the Easter weekend. “Your ‘Jesus package’?” I ask, arching a sardonic eyebrow.

She’s sparkling in her seat. “Yep! The 40^th anniversary edition of Jesus of Nazareth, and (three other films).” The titles escape me at this writing, and the package, alas, did not make it by the Easter weekend.

Let me be clear. There is absolutely nothing wrong with what Jesus taught. In fact, everyone on the planet throughout history, now, and in the future should follow what he taught because what he taught pretty much aligns with what Mohammed and the Buddah taught, which is to practice the higher virtues of honesty, kindness, tolerance and charity. These virtues were on the spiritual Hit Parade long before Jesus was born. He didn’t invent them. He practiced them. He lived them to the best of his ability in a world as chaotic then as it is crazy now, and his hope was –I believe – to impress upon his disciples the importance of carrying them forward after he was gone. It’s not his fault that things went seriously sideways within a generation of his death, or that the religion spawned in his name has fragmented and festered over centuries. The message is still out there, but Jesus’ association with it is no longer so prevalent.

During one of our spontaneous Philosophy Quests, Ter and I fell into a discussion of what I call our “guru collection”. I occasionally wonder about the vast cast of principals in our pursuit of spiritual enlightenment, and Ter had clearly been pondering the same thing when she said, “At the end of the day, which one do I choose?”

“Do you have to choose one?” I asked. “Their philosophies are almost identical. Every day has a new spin, so what’s wrong with having a guru du jour?”

We talked about common elements and different points of view. After all, every philosopher has a unique perspective compared to other philosophers, though the subject is always the same. We pick out the pertinent info and apply it to our own philosophies. In the end, we hope we make the world a better place by practicing what we learn.

A lot of what we learn, no matter who we learn it from, is the same. Honesty, kindness, love, forgiveness and compassion. “So,” Ter concluded when we had talked ourselves full circle, “it’s okay if I quote Dr Wayne today and Jesus is my guy tomorrow.”

I laughed, but I think she’s right. Jesus is her guy. Her reverence for him has lasted her entire lifetime. She has shown me to appreciate him, to respect and revere him, by making him real. I suppose some might see it as a demotion for the Son of God to be made human, but referring to him in the familiar hardly negates his historical importance. He was a hugely influential figure with a massive destiny and daunting purpose to his short time on earth. I think of him a lot and I think a lot of him—certainly more than I did when I went to church. Without Ter’s example, such would not be the case.

I’m glad of it. I guess he’s kind of my guy, too. I hope he’s okay with that.

The Hoodie Incident

People are funny, eh? You can never tell what drives someone to offer an opinion or observation, or a plainly idiotic statement. One thing is sure: our perceptions are coloured by our individual experience. Fear and prejudice can wring the most curious responses ... though, admittedly, some folks are simply out to create a reaction.

Take the hoodie incident.

When shopping for Ter’s birthday, I bought her a pair of silly socks from Sugar & Cotton. Since then, I’ve been getting promos from their site. Cool cutlery, pretty jewellery, glittery scarves ... and an asymmetrical hoodie that I think is awesome in a Star Wars, Sithy kind of way. (The Sith, for the sadly uninitiated, are the villains in a galaxy far, far away; villains to whom I am partial for reasons that yet elude rational explanation.) Each time I log into FB—which is not all that often—an ad for this hoodie pops up and finally, unable to resist the notion of sporting a functional garment given a wicked cool twist, I ordered one. In black, of course.

Then I noticed the FB comments. I pay little attention to reviews, choosing instead to trust my own sense of whether or not something is worth my time and/or money, but sprinkled among those comments of “love it!” or “can get it cheaper here” were a couple of scathing observations that likened this trendy runway item to, of all things, a birka. A birka? Seriously? I took a second to shake off that one, then caught further comments along similar lines. A sort of religious tussle almost ensued as people took sides ... arguing about radical Islam tainting fashion design.

Okay, maybe I’m missing something. I hope I would have a bit of an issue myself with a frivolous industry building on a practice that oppresses women. If I thought for an instant that the designer of this item was less a Star Wars fan and more a radical Islamic nutball, I probably wouldn’t have bought one. But I don’t think that. The possibility never even occurred to me. That it occurred to someone—anyone—else is a show of hypersensitivity that may either be connected to past experience, or it may just be a guy with a biased intent to cause an uproar.

I don’t live under a rock. I am aware of global events and social upheaval and cultural oppression and political hot potatoes ... yet when I saw this hoodie, all I thought was “Cool!” I didn’t dig deeper because I didn’t feel the need. You can call me shallow for missing what’s apparently obvious to others. You may call the dissenters socially conscious and applaud them, but if we all relax, we might also see this for what it really is:

A hoodie.

Friend or Foe?

I used to play a game with God. I’d try to make Him guess when I’d switch off my radio before I went to sleep. Would it be after this song, or the next, or would I wait until one came on that I didn’t care to hear? Figure that one out, Heavenly Father.

Trouble was, since God knew everything, He knew before I did when I’d hit the off switch. If I went “yes, no, yesnoyes—no!” He was already at “no!” while I was still toying.

I was actually playing the game with myself.

My concept of God has expanded significantly over the years. He is no longer a bearded father figure with a warm smile and forbidding frown, keeping track of my mistakes and saving any rewards for the outcome of my Judgment Day trial. It seems so narrow-minded now, but it was familiar to me then, and so I went with it. For the purpose of this post, the omniscient creator of all things is referred to as “God”.

Life can change your mind if you’re open to new ideas. I am much happier believing that God loves each of us equally and unconditionally, and what awaits at the end of the road is neither punishment nor condemnation, but a joyous welcome home. As I’ve said before, even the bad guys deserve praise for giving it their best shot. They make the good guys look even better, don’t they? Without the villains, the heroes have no cause to be heroic. Without cruelty, compassion is unnecessary. How can we experience the best in human nature without someone acting out the worst? Ironically, it takes a hero to be a villain.

I digress. Sort of.

Just like everyone else, I was born with a map in one hand and a copy of my agreement in the other. The agreement is a list of things I want to learn, to experience, and to share. I also have specific assignments that only I, with my unique blend of energy and talent, can perform. I have this much time and will be accompanied by these people, for the purpose of this outing in the guise of friends, family, co-workers, etc. God knows me well enough to trust that I will fulfill the bulk of my contractual obligations, and maybe even nail them all; but how I arrive at the end result is entirely up to me.

God’s part of the deal is to provide lane assist when I start to stray off course, to plant road markers that I may or may not recognize (again, that’s up to me), and to be there when I reach for Him. I’m pretty sure we agreed to some other things, but I lost both my map and my copy of the contract so I’m basically winging it on faith, trusting that someone somewhere has the originals.

Oh, and the bit about God knowing what we’ll do before we do it? He doesn’t worry about when the radio is shut off. He just loves the child playing the game.

A Virtuous Life (Part II)

I no longer believe that I have a greater purpose beyond a) being happy and b) making others happy. Item b) isn’t actually my responsibility—it’s the individual’s—but if I can help to make someone’s day better, I’m game. Ever the fan of recipes with fewer than five ingredients, and thanks to Dr. Wayne Dyer, I was recently reminded of the four cardinal virtues as defined by Lao-tzu in the Tao Te Ching:

Reverence (Respect)

Sincerity (Honesty)

Gentleness (Kindness)

Supportiveness (Service)

I know; that looks like eight, but it’s not. The four virtues are so called because they originate with our divine natures, therefore it’s more natural for us to practice them in all their incarnations, i.e., “reverence” being interpreted as unconditional love and respect for ourselves, for each other, and for all living beings. You can include the planet in the last category, as the world and everything in it is made of energy on some vibrational level and is, therefore, alive.

You’ll note that patience is not listed, despite being hailed by established religions as one of the nobler virtues.

Well, maybe it’s there after all—filed under “Gentleness”. There may be four cardinal virtues, but like the four astrological elements, there are descending (or ascending?) variations of each. Secondary and tertiary virtues sprung from the original, if you will. Some have been decreed by religious dogma, but any quality that makes the world a kinder place is fine by me. The point being that, since the cardinal four actually come with us from beyond the veil, daily practice of same can and will enrich a person’s life as well as those whom that person encounters, and it doesn’t matter which god claims you.

This sounds simple, and it probably is. Humans do have a way of complicating things. Within the maelstrom that is daily life, simplicity is hard to come by.

That’s why it’s called “practice”. You may not get it right the first time. If you do, good luck sustaining it. But as long as you persevere, practice eventually becomes a way of life. Same goes if you choose to be a pin-headed rat bastard. Practice anything with regularity and you’ll achieve it. Even miserable sods have the power to increase their abundance. The Universe serves everyone.

Or tries to serve. I still get in my own way. I still grip the wheel with both hands and try to force my will on it. All I have to do is set the intention and step away from the helm, but can I do that???

Yeeeeaaaaahhhhh—No.

Virgo = Control freak. For someone who has no limitations, I have given myself limitations.

Four little virtues. Respect, honesty, kindness and service.

Practice, practice, practice.

With love,

A Virtuous Life (Part I)

Tolstoy wrote a short story called The Death of Ivan Ilyich. I haven’t read it, but I know the premise. On his deathbed, the protagonist laments, “What if my whole life has been wrong?”

That’s a scary thought, especially when one considers that Jacob Marley, in A Christmas Carol and also on his deathbed, knew that his life had been wrong.

Only it hadn’t been. Neither had Ivan’s. Neither is mine. Nor is yours.

Nobody’s life is ever “wrong”. We may regret, at the end, how we chose to live it, but life is meant to teach us by letting us make mistakes. Even poor choices are merely choices, decisions made whether or not we are aware of making them.

The saddest choice a person can make is to give up too soon. Children are shaped by external influences: parents, siblings, friends, peers, media, religion, etc. The first thirty years of my life (this time) were spent in pursuit of someone else’s idea of happiness. During those years, I believed my primary purpose was to marry and have children, be a support to hubby and a pillar in my community. Failing that (which I did), I was expected to get a secure job and settle into the role of small spanner in the larger works.

Writing was a nice-to-have.

It still is.

I had my midlife crisis at thirty. By religious standards, I was past my best-before date and other women my age were married and bearing children. What was wrong with me that I wasn’t able to do the same?

Only upon closer inspection did I discover that—gasp!—I was happy with my life. Oh, it was a little rough, being gainfully unemployed and still on the marriage market, but Ter and I were making ends meet and having a ball wherever possible. I was writing, she was drawing, we were young, optimistic, and I still had my Mustang. We regularly tripped to Vancouver for rock concerts and went to the movies a lot; even after we landed those secure jobs and became pension prisoners, we spent our cruise/golfing vacation money on Def Leppard and Duran Duran tickets—more than once!

After I turned forty, I started thinking more deeply about life’s meaning. More importantly, about my life’s meaning. I’ve heard that we spend most of our lives trying to become who we were when we started in those magical, new-penny moments after we were born. Everyone comes to this world with a plan and pure intent. The first half of our life messes us up, and we spend the rest of it (hopefully) getting back to ourselves.

This involves unlearning what loving but fallible folks have taught us from day one, and unlistening to the know-it-all ego that has its own motivation for holding us back. It’s a process that requires daily recalibration and ongoing forgiveness of ourselves and others. Most of us will depart this estate with a greater understanding than we had when we arrived. Some of us won’t—but guess what? They get to repeat Grade Three! 

… to be continued

By Any Other Name

A boy is named “John” by his parents. His little brother calls him “Johnny”, and his friends call him “Jack”. His first girlfriend calls him “Jonathan”, even though that’s not what he was christened. She just likes it better because it sounds more highbrow.

On a tour of Europe in his twenties, the locals call him “Juan” in Madrid, “Jean” in Paris, “Giovanni” in Rome, “Sean” in Ireland, “Jan” in Stockholm and “Ivan” in St Petersburg.

When he returns home and marries his third girlfriend (the second called him—gasp!—“John”), she wants to name their son for him but chooses another variation: “Zane”. John would have preferred “Shane”, but isn’t so invested that he wants to start a war.

A co-worker who passed away in 2009 said two things to me that I have always remembered. One, that he hated the Philadelphia Flyers and couldn’t believe I’m a fan, and two, by passing along the quote at the top of this post. Six years later, the argument continues, yet I believe that all sides are raging over the same individual: a singular creator who is known by a dozen different names.

But it’s not about God at all, is it?

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace” – Jimi Hendrix

The Lesson is Love

Pope Francis is in a precarious position. He is a spiritual man in charge of a monster institution—and apparently he’s considered by some within the Catholic Church to be a bit of a rebel. A radical thinker. A threat, perhaps, to the centuries’ old dogma that, like the American citizens’ “right to bear arms” no longer applies. Society has evolved. The power balance has shifted, and for a long time now, the Church—all religion, really—has been losing respect, credibility, and members.

I was taught in Sunday school that the truth never changes. If that statement originated in a time when the earth was flat and the sun revolved around it, then that particular truth was not true at all … until you consider that truth is not necessarily true in the bigger picture or will remain true in the future, but is most definitely true in the moment.

Perception is everything.

One truth remains eternal:

It’s all about love.

And Pope Francis gets it.

This could be why there are rumblings among the masses. Francis is not out there passing judgment or heaping fire and brimstone on the heads of sinners. He is healing through love and service, teaching both by example, and he seems unconcerned that neither of these principles was copyrighted by the Vatican. In fact, he’s publicly allowed that someone can be of a different faith, race, sexual orientation, you name it, and still be a good person.

Radical thinking, indeed.

I am not a Catholic. I’m unsure that I am even a Christian anymore. Though I accept that Christ lived among us and was a great spiritual teacher, I’ve long grown suspicious of any religion associated with his name—but I believe implicitly in his message.

I believe in love.

I believe in being a good person, and that most of us are good people.

I believe that we are all connected to each other and to the infinite power that created us.

I believe that Pope Francis is not only what the Church needs now. The whole world needs him. He is helping to revive the message that was somehow lost in the struggle for dominance, for power and wealth and influence over kings and peasants alike.

It’s a message of love. Of compassion. Of patience and forgiveness. It’s the same message that Dr Wayne conveyed, and both he and Pope Francis have reminded me of something that’s almost as important as the message itself:

There are great spiritual teachers among us now, in this day and this age. There are also charlatans and wannabes, as there were in the past, but rest assured, if someone is speaking from his heart, your heart will know it.

Pitter Pater

Back in my religious days, I recall sitting in church one Mother’s Day, holding my dad’s hand and listening to the speakers—all male—wax rhapsodic about the gloried sanctity of the women who had raised them to be the supernal specimens of righteous nobility they had become. The most memorable facet of the entire service was my anticipation of what the female speakers would have to say on Father’s Day the following month. Naturally, it made sense to me that, since the boys had been asked to talk of motherhood, the girls would be asked talk of fatherhood. I even dared to hope that I might be invited to speak about my father, and promptly began to construct my dream speech.

Well, I wasn’t asked. No daughters were. Imagine my disappointment when, on Father’s Day, the service began, we sang our hymns and said our prayers, and the first speaker stepped up to the podium. A man. Excuse me, a priesthood holder, who promptly launched into waxing rhapsodic about the gloried sanctity of the man who had raised him to be blah blah blah.

I was so mad that I’ve remembered the slight to this day.

This day being Father’s Day, I’d like to present the speech that I was not invited to give all those years ago, which I would do if I could remember any of it. A lot of time has passed since then, and my relationship with my father has adapted accordingly. A few things between us have remained unchanged, which means they must be true.

My dad is a good guy. He struggles, and has struggled, more than he’s let on over the course of my life, but I have never doubted that he loves me, wants the best for me, wants the best from me, and has been no less demanding on himself. He tells me that I once told him as a father he was great, but as a husband, not so much. Naturally, I don’t remember that conversation and it’s hardly my call anyway, but when I got in where I shouldn’t have gone, I managed to get out with a deeper understanding of life, love, and the complexities of adulthood. That’s the cool thing about my dad. I can talk to him about adulthood. I try not to, being compelled to prove myself a competent player in the game of life, but when he catches me unaware, we have the best discussions.

I learned from him to answer honestly when he asked me what I was thinking. Those drives home from work were invaluable moments to expand on our thoughts, hopes, dreams, fears, you name it, we probably talked about it. True, I did most of the talking. He listened and asked questions that encouraged me think more. He dispensed advice, some good, and some that I later regretted ignoring. And some that just plain didn’t work for me—and that turned out to be okay, because as cool as my dad is, he’s not perfect. He’ll be the first to tell you so.

He’ll also be wrong. My father is as perfect as he can be, and that’s how this daughter likes it.

Happy Father’s Day.

With love,

I Want to be Evil

Many Christmases ago, a couple of friends and I lip-synced to Eartha Kitt singing “Santa Baby” at a church talent show. This bit of innocent fun was rewarded with a typhoon of a scandal when the elders in the audience mistook us for high-priced call girls—we were actually pretending to be greedy little rich girls, but it’s in the mind of the beholder.

If we could stir up a bee’s nest with a silly Christmas song, imagine the damage we could have done if we’d known about this one! We’d have surely been labeled Satanists and immediately enrolled in exorcism therapy.

Ter said later that we might have avoided the uproar if we had dressed as hobos. Was I sorry? Heck, no. But I lost a lot of respect for the men who saw something that wasn’t in the sketch …

Sunday Sermon

I used to be religious. In my teens and twenties – when I already knew everything anyway – I appreciated the structure and the society of the church. I followed the lifestyle easily, probably because I was naturally disinclined to smoke or drink, and while I may have gotten into boy trouble, I never had the chance because, regrettably, I was more interested in them than they were in me. Besides, I was a writer with rheumatoid arthritis, so my preference was to quiet creativity and introspection. I respected God and loved Jesus, followed the commandments as best I could, and confessed when, knowingly or unknowingly, I broke the rules.

But I couldn’t stop asking questions. Worse, I couldn’t blithely accept every answer. I began to notice inconsistencies, disparities and inequalities that God supposedly frowned upon but, in practice, appeared to support. Women were revered and oppressed at the same time. That bugged me. Men were accepted as weaker and more susceptible to temptation, and therefore more readily forgiven. That really bugged me. How was it that such untrustworthy creatures were given authority over the women and children in the congregation, and why were said women and children expected to obey them without question? It was never purely black and white for me, but I went along the path they said was set for me and waited to fulfill my destiny as wife, mother, and dutiful daughter of God.

Well, the path didn’t go where they told me it would—and I suspect they would say it’s my fault. To which I reply, “Phooey.”

I’m actually much happier than I think I would have been had Mr Right shown up in all his godly glory. My spirit is free to explore and decide for myself what works and what doesn’t. I still believe in a greater, infinite power, though the form that power takes is less the god made in man’s image and more a benevolent source of strength which I can call upon as I choose. I’ve always believed that I have more control than I was taught. Now I know it.

I can choose to view the world as a wondrous place of beauty and miracles, or I can choose to live in fear of it. Same with my fellow man. Now I “get” what Jesus was preaching, and you know what? He preached the same principles as Buddah and Mohammed and Ghandi and the Dalai Lama and Jon Bon Jovi:

Love’s the Only Rule. Be here now. Treat yourself with the same kindness and respect as you treat others. Believe in magic. Be grateful. Trust that you will always have exactly what you need. Conduct yourself with integrity. Be honest. Accept change. Create change. Create art. Seek joy. Find beauty. Breathe.

Don’t believe everything you think.

I’m not suggesting that you do all this at once. It’s hard to keep a positive outlook all the time. Just pick one and try it for a day. Just for today … because, really, all there is, is Now.

With love,