It’s not that I hate weeding.  It’s that over the course of a growing season, the natural grasses that tend to grow between my perennials give the garden a more natural, softer, more inviting look.  I tell myself it’s a matter of allowing nature to do what nature does and to enjoy the process.  It’s letting go.

But weeding can have an important part to play in gardening, especially vegetable gardening.  Weeds have a tendency to take nutrients away from vegetables that need to mature and ripen over the course of a growing season.  Without weeding, crops don’t produce as well or in the quality one might expect.

This year was the raised bed’s turn to teach me a lesson.  I had allowed mint to creep into the vegetable patch because I had thought it would be good for butterflies and other pollinators.  I figured, “Hey! I can use the mint for tea and for cooking, it won’t be so bad!”   Until late in the year when I realized not only had the mint taken over the entire vegetable patch:  it was preventing lots of my vegetables from maturing, or even producing, because it had overtaken so much of the soil.

I’m finding as I mature and grow in my Catholic faith, and identity (not only as a Catholic, but as a Franciscan), that elements of my life seem sweet!  There are certain characteristics of my behavior, certain choices, certain behaviors, that initially give me great pleasure.  Over the Christmas season it’s been baking.  Having engaged in a wonderful relationship with an amazing man, there’s also the realization that being a foodie in the company of another foodie makes eating more exciting.  But it also can take over the garden, in a manner of speaking.

Confession isn’t so much a sacrament (although it is in the tradition that I practice) as it is a way of life.  It’s about being vigilant, knowing that certain things can be beneficial in balance, but also recognizing that unchecked, like mint, these behaviors can overtake one’s life and begin to choke out the benefits of other behaviors, other qualities.  There’s a reason the catechism teaches us to make a good confession before receiving the Eucharist:  it draws from what Christ taught about leaving your offering, making peace with your brother, and returning to make the offering once this is done.

God does work as a healer, but only if we are willing to do the leg work and make the effort, take the exertion it takes, to apply the remedy.  In the twelve step programs, it comes to the idea of the 10th step:  Continuing to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong, promptly admitting it.

The Franciscan way of living challenges me daily to let go of these little things, the little pebbles as I like to call them, the behaviors and attitudes that although safe, are actually detrimental to my vocation.  These are the things which get in the way of poverty, because like money, like physical things, the cherished ways of thinking and behaving are owned by us.  They are sweet like mint, they appear beautiful above the surface of the soil, but deep within us they spread roots that crop up plants (and negative behaviors) in greater and greater numbers.

So this fall, I pulled up almost all the mint that I could.  I suspect there are little bits and pieces of the roots still in the soil, so I will have to be continually vigilant in my weeding if I want my garden to be productive.  It’s not that mint isn’t good!  It’s that mint is best grown in a container where roots will not spread.

“Keep awake, therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”

We are often distracted by those things which are immediately in front of us, the panic moments.  For me over the holidays, it was eating too much, spending too much money, trying to find time to spend in focus and prayer when there seemed to be so many other pressing things, like spending time with family, or with my boyfriend.  Little things like walking the dog seemed to be in the way of getting alone time; generally, it’s not until things get a little less distracting that I’m able to focus again on reading the Divine Office, and regularly practicing my centering prayer.

The garden doesn’t need as much attentive focus right now, but the seed catalogues have arrived.  They’re piling up beside my couch, waiting for me to leaf through and start planning what will go where.  But in the way of that is the imposing cold that’s moving through the house, changing everyone from a tenor to a baritone; the reality that the stress of work comes from an inability of employers to see anything beyond profit; and the magic cloud of red buttons on desks that launch nuclear weapons.  Be it climate change, mortgage payments, or the regularity of the insanity of communities, there are ample opportunities for our attention to slip, to switch from what is important to what is easier to grasp as a means of not being still, not focusing on the still point.

A really good example of this was in a thread I followed on Facebook.  A religious made a point about gender, and within 4-5 posts, a person began a tangent discussion about the nature of Jesus’ celibate life.  (To be sure?  I’m not certain that Bible speaks of this either way.)  In this case, it was easier for this individual to being a spiritual discussion rather than deal with the issue at hand.

Jesus had a similar experience with a certain woman at a certain well.  When he brought up the reason this woman was out in the heat of the day to get water, something that women of the time never did because it was too hot, she changed the subject.  She tried to bring the attention to worship rather than her past/current behavior.  Rather than react angrily, Jesus calmly redirects the conversation and brings her attention back to the important matter at hand.

Venerable Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen puts it another way, when he said that people can wake up in two ways.  They can say “Good morning, God!”  Or, alternatively, they can say “Good God, Morning!”

Once I make the choice where to put my attention, everything from my mood to my choices to my attitudes follows.  When I make the choice to take time to focus, to be still, to center and find that rock in myself that grounds me to God, my day tends to unfold with a lot more calm and tranquility.  I’m able to face challenges with less hostility and frustration because those changes are less threatening.  But if and when I choose to restrict or eliminate my quiet times (and that does happen!), it’s far easier to slip into the dark reactionary ways of living like a deer caught in a head lights “GOOD GOD!  MORNING!”

There is a line in the Compline prayer that says:

“Fratres: Sóbrii estóte, et vigiláte: quia adversárius vester diábolus, tamquam leo rúgiens círcuit, quaerens quem dévoret: cui resístite fortes in fide.  Brethren, stay sober and alert, your adversary the devil, is prowling around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour, resist him being strong in your faith.  Every time we allow our attentiveness to slip from the calm within us, we provide an opportunity for negativity, frustration, anxiety, anger, depression, sadness, fear to enter into our lives like a roaring lion that will tear us from the walk we walk, push us into dark and dismal territory.

This year, the importance of the attentiveness of prayer and contemplation is central to me.  Taking moments in the day for reading my office, for using the mundane tasks as opportunities for contemplative focus and praise, planning the garden as an integral part of my serenity and the hermitage’s focal point, focusing on direction in how I can work within myself, my community; attentiveness is as easy as closing my eyes, watching my breath flow in, flow out, watching the still points between, coming to the important truth innately within myself:  Be Still and Know that I am God.

I hate liver.

No, really.  I can’t eat liver.  Or smoked oysters.

I get those foods into my mouth, take a couple of chews, and the flavour and texture make me gag.

I hate prejudice.  I hate that even though I hate prejudice, I suffer from prejudices that I have to rail against on a daily basis.  There are ideas so ingrained in my psyche that when they come up I make a snap judgement, sometimes I catch it before I put my foot in my mouth, sometimes I don’t.

I hate that standing up for what is right sometimes means doing things that are scary, means confronting things that make me anxious.

I hate that doing the right thing means hurting physically.

Hate is a choice.  Being hated is not.

Wearing being hated as a badge of honour is stupid.  Thinking that being hated means you’re doing something constructive is stupid.

I hate being stupid.  I’d like to think that I’m not stupid, but I have days.  Oh, do I have days.

I hate that labels create ideas that make the difference between someone feeling safe and someone feeling threatened.  I hate that tradition is sometimes safer than creating truly safe spaces within and without.

I hate the perplexity I feel.  I hate having difficulty with pronouns, with having to trip over people’s abuses of the english language and basic grammar.

(And I hate that I may have offended people with my own.)

But……

I love that people can change, when they want to.  I love that change itself can, with time, not be a dangerous or threatening thing.

I love that diversity can in fact make people stronger.  I love that people are strong enough to accept diversity.

I love that people can resist the grooves in their psyche to relearn modes of thinking and identifying.

I love that beautiful things exist in the world that can be seen, or seen better, or appreciated in a stronger, deeper, more passionate way.

I love that labels can be just labels, that labels of an intellectual sense can be peeled off or written over just like paper labels.  I like how some things are person relative, like how one identifies, but how some other things are intrinsic, consistent, solid.

I love how when you feel out of sorts something happens that just puts a smile on your face, like a $100 cheque that magically appears in the mail out of nowhere.

Or your boyfriend’s Christmas shopping that is now taking up more space under your bed than your own Christmas shopping.

I love how a dog pawing your face can turn from a desire to need more sleep to a soft, warm, fuzzy alarm clock.

Canada Post just showed up with more parcels.  I’m going to have to find another place to put my boyfriend’s Amazon parcels.

The shelves started switching over to Christmas décor in the box stores in my city around mid-October.  For others, the Christmas season started the day after Halloween.  Once the trick-or-treating was done, the costumes went out and literally overnight Christmas decorations went up.  People were excited to get it started.  And who can blame them!  This is a season of giving, of family, of familiar smells and sounds and tastes that’s unique to the Christmas season.

Then came black Friday (any connection to Good Friday, he asked himself).  And the subsequent dates, and shopping.  And the black tar that seemed  to engulf the people working retail that I get a chance to interact with on a fairly regular basis.

Anxiety is like a dark silhouette that follows you at every moment; you never know when it will come out and cover your face, change the way you look at situations or interactions that under normal circumstance would seem perfectly benign.  It takes social interactions and turns them into life and death situations:  instead of talking to someone behind a counter, or talking to someone on a telephone, you find yourself face to face with a wild animal that can threaten your safety.  It pushes you into isolation because it’s easier to be isolated and safe than in the company of people and threatened.   This time of year is hard for me because the hype is on family, the commercial industry demands that people laugh and have a good time and have fun and be friendly with one another and…. I’m just confronted with the shadow.

There’s a meme floating around on Facebook right now that talks about how to get yourself out of an anxiety attack, how you focus on certain things, breathe in a certain way, everything will be ok.  That’s partially true.  I can’t do anything once it begins except to ride it out, cry if I have to, scream if I have to, get angry at myself, deal with the subsequent depression, try to break the cycle with something positive, and move forward in the hopes that the attack won’t be as bad next time.

This season is a blessing, and a curse. It is a time where I’m drawn to solitude, and to the company of others. It’s a time when the shadow finds it easer to cover my face, and why shouldn’t it be? Something is about to happen that the shadow doesn’t want me to see, needs me to forget because as long as I don’t see, it has power over me.  Advent becomes part of the process for me, part of the detoxification and reclaiming of the Christmas season.  The decorations and the food and the merrymaking are definitely a part of the process, but they’re also distractions from a pilgrimage that happens starting today.  Being the first Sunday of the Advent season, we’re walking together with the star.  It’s a time of transformation, of shedding the world, shedding our fears and anxieties, and our expectations.  We’re moving slowly towards a place in space and time that transcends our physical selves, our dependence on the world of things, to a higher place:  the place of the manger, the place of the newborn King, the place where the journey ends and begins again.  Christ is born in Bethlehem!  The Lamb of God.

This is my first Christmas as a baptised, confirmed Catholic, as a Franciscan, as someone who has someone in my life that I love and cherish.  There’s three reasons why I shouldn’t let the darkness win this argument.  And when I light the first candle tonight, there’ll be one more reason.

 

(Because deeper meanings are always hidden behind the paragraphs about the dirt under my fingernails!)

You have to know when it’s time to harvest, time to cut back the dead growth, time to evaluate how things went in your flower beds this year, what performed well in your vegetable garden, what needs tweaking for next year, what bulbs to order, what grass to turn over for flower beds next year.

Last year I opened up two new beds, one for asparagus and flowering kale (that ended up being purple cauliflower, which is OK just totally unexpected, and another that I called my “Cuban Garden” which had all kinds of marigolds and chilis, black bachelor buttons and bright red poppies.  It was also the first year that the new raised beds were planted with vegetables.  It wasn’t nearly as productive as I had thought it would be, and I suspect that had to do with too much humidity in the soil, a healthy crop of slugs (really…I’m still scratching my head about how in the prairies we can have such a plentiful slug population!).  To top it off, only two of the forty or so gladiolas that I replanted gave me flowers.  I was going to leave them in the ground to die off but I suspect part of the reason they decided not to flower was a) I planted too early, and b) the location I put them was way too wet.  So I’ll dig them up, return them to their little box, put them back in the closet, and try again next year.

There’s a couple of cats that seem to think they can hunt here.  Every once and a while I find a dead sparrow or a song bird, pick it up, put it under a hedge to try and give it some respect…I know, it’s a bird!  It’s a crazy way of relating to nature I picked up from my great Aunt Fran, who I still miss a lot and not just for the cooking.  I’ve tried hissing at them, I’ve tried staring them down.  I think the only thing I’m left with doing is either water, a trap, or just accept that sometimes being a hospitable host means putting up with boisterous guests.

That concludes the fall portion!

I saw a cartoon on Facebook that made me react.  It depicted a screaming woman with a halo, who was shouting about how Christians… it’s just going to be easier for you to look at it yourselves.

So my first reaction was to be offended.  Not because there aren’t valid points raised, and not because the context in which the cartoon depicts these images makes a blanket (read bigoted) slant to Christians/Christianity.  I was offended because the image was created to provoke a reaction.  I had written “offend”, but then walked away from my post and come back a day later, realizing that offend was too involved a term.

Part of creating a sacred space in a garden is knowing when a weed, say a different kind of natural grass that would be pulled out anywhere else, will insert itself into your lily beds and provide interesting contrasts in the summer (along with food for birds and insects), beautiful colours in the fall, and contrast the bleak white of the snow in winter.  Thistles are beautiful in the right situations, but if allowed to flourish will choke everything else out.  This was the case with mint in my vegetable garden.  I spent the better part of a day pulling out what felt like miles of hot pink roots that would potentially regrow even more vigorously next year as mint, choking out my veg.  So I garden knowing that I’m going to allow some kinds of weeds to exist because the trade off for not pulling them out is a kind of beauty that I’m attempting to achieve.

People are the same when it comes to how they interact with their opinions.  We pick up tools which justify and enforce our anger.  The cartoon image above is a great example of what well crafted weeding can accomplish.  It’s not about bashing Christians (although it accomplishes that goal), and it’s not about making Atheists seem more level headed and more common sense (although it seems to make us want to think that, from one point of view).  This image is created to stir emotion in anyone who reads it because the individuals who crafted it require the response to justify their own involvement.

As this image is geared towards Christians, I can think of several examples where fundamentalists have used their orthodoxy in the same way.  So from one point of view, this image is not conducive to reconciliation or acceptance or dialogue.  Rather, it’s conducive to keep the fight going because the fight, regardless of what the fight is about, is more important than the cause of the fight.

It’s hate porn.

In order for reconciliation to occur–meaningful movement beyond the continuing investment in anger, in hate–both parties have to first be willing to disengage from the capitalism of hate, the state where “I hate X about you, you hate Y about me, let’s hate each other and be unified in Z.”  To me, images like this when they appear show me that people have not yet begun to realize how attached they are to their hate, their prejudice.

Not all Christians believe abortion is a sin.  Some do.  I do.

Not all Christians believe that Queer people are an abomination.  Some do.  I don’t.  My denomination does not.  Many denominations do not.

Not all Christians believe that atheists are amoral agents of Satan.  Pope Francis doesn’t.   I don’t.  I know that I’m challenged more by my atheist/agnostic friends on my faith, but I don’t look at it as a threat;  it’s an opportunity to practice apologetics.  It’s an opportunity to share what I believe in a way that’s not proselytizing, or perhaps threatening.

Not all Christians believe that certain art is offensive.  Some do, but some don’t.  What comes to mind for me is the art of Robert Mapplethorpe who famously displayed crucifixes in clear containers filled with urine.  If you want to know my point of view about offensive imagery, go back one post and read about what I wrote about the image that caused so much ruckus on Facebook.

The war, I think, isn’t being raged so much against Christianity as it is against Christendom.  It’s not so much about rights being trampled on as it is a need by both extremes to be engaged in being engaged.

Again, hate porn.

So I find myself in a position of having just a few weeks ago posted an image in the same ilk as the one above, one which depicted Donald Trump and Mike Pense in a position which led the viewer to draw the conclusion that oral sex was being performed by Pense on Trump (ok, take a moment to wash that image out of your hair…..), and now being on the other side of the fence as the one offended (although mildly).

I must ask forgiveness of my brothers and sisters in the Queer community because I have let you down.  I’ve participated in propagating hate porn, I’ve participated in an act of rage that will only propagate rage, not reconciliation.

I must ask patience from my brothers and sisters in the Queer community because it takes a lot of practice to break from the cycle of hate porn.  On the one hand I preach out against it, preach out against taking part in a system that breaks us down by uniting us in dividing behaviours that link us in rage and anger; yet here I am, not only participating but doing so with the same sense of self righteousness that comes with the moral high ground of quicksand we fight to gain.

I will attempt to be reconciled by changing my behaviour.  I’ve participated in this way of living most of my life, and to assume I can change overnight is a tall order–but it’s the only order than can stand.  Anything else is half assed. This cartoon image actually led me down a road of seeing my own faults, my own shortcomings.  It’s shown me how I’ve actually been caught up in the system I’ve been fighting and been even more deeply entrenched in the trade of hate porn that I was aware of.

There is a moment to turn the other cheek, and a moment to face the slap head on and call it out for what it is.  The challenge is to know how, to know when, and to be in a state of awareness to know when the challenge is done because it will profit rather than be an instrument of justice.  So…of course… the practice of turning the other cheek becomes even more important because of what’s at stake.  It’s a choice between living in a state of love and grace, or living in a state of rage and anger that closes the mind to any rational thinking.

I think that’s something theists and atheists can agree upon.  In practice, however……

 

I recently made an off-cuff share of a post that created a bit of a stir.  At first, I thought that the reactions were over the top; but in the spirit of being open and questioning my beliefs, I took the opportunity to practice taking on the other opinion for a moment to try and understand.

The post in question came on the heels of a protest made by US Vice President, Mike Pense (who Siri auto corrects to Sense for some reason…. pun?), who left a stadium after members of one of the teams took a knee during the singing of the national anthem.  The cartoon shows a figure in a suit kneeing in front of another figure.  He could be picking up a button, he could be proposing marriage, or he could be doing any number of things in front of the standing figure.  In case you’re wondering, the one figure is supposed to represent Mike Sense, (see!!!) and the other Donald Trump.  Siri doesn’t have anything to say about changing Trump.  (That could also be a pun.)

Then my boyfriend remarks, quite accurately, that the image was not drawn in such a way to suggest anything but oral sex.  For example if he was picking up a button, where’s the button?  If it was a proposal, where is the wedding ring?

Then he suggests that the image could in fact be considered homophobic.  By depicting Pense (THANK YOU SIRI!) and Trump engaged in (enjoying? We can’t tell because there are no faces!) oral sex, and by default Sense (REALLY SIRI?) and Trump’s image in this way is actually being homophobic.  Subtle, subconscious homophobia.

Thanks Dan.  Love you lots.  Really.  For real.

He also brought up the fact that we in Queer Culture might not be as shocked by these images because we’re subject to them in advertising and pop culture a lot more than heterosexual culture.  Reaction one, good point.  Reaction two, but there’s no definitive action shown.  It’s implied.  In the same way that the protest Pense (SIRI!  What’s going on here!?) made was implied before it was tweeted.

Point one:  An action that goes noticed because attention is brought to it is suspect of being spontaneous.  That’s a general rule that applies across the board.

He also brought up the important point that I could, COULD technically say that my actions online will have ZERO impact on how people think of me, and that my actions in the real non digital world will be how people judge me.  Case in point, growing vegetables for seniors who can’t get them, running a meditation workshop for the queer community, being available to queers for spiritual direction, volunteering for…you get the idea! (Remember point one?)

Point two:  An action that goes noticed by the people it is intended for is of more value than one that is staged for the actor’s own good, or the actor’s patron’s good.

Case in point the tweet that subsequently went out after the fact by HRH Trump. (Siri why are you not giving me clever suggestions for Trump?)

But in the end, he came up with what I thought was actually the classiest response possible, the one I concluded the thread with.  Which brings me to point number three:

Point three:  Given a choice between clicking a button that will make the problem go away, and clicking a series of buttons that takes time to make a point, people will always make the choice which takes more effort.

Why don’t people do this generally at work?  You know how productive people would be if they put the effort into writing a response that they should be doing putting into their jobs?  Which brings me to capitalism and the misdefinition of the mixed economy and we’re not going there today.

Yes, the image may have been seen by individuals in my feed who were minors, or individuals of a more delicate nature.  Individuals who are activists, who witness hunger and suffering all over the world on a regular basis because people in suites….I’m digressing.  This is about satire and it’s place in our culture.

Sure, there are images that we find offensive and we may have justifiable reasons for this.  We may be offended by the fact that a teen in a high school in the US refuses to say the pledge of allegiance and as a result was expelled, then again allowed to rejoin her classmates.  We may be offended by the fact that in a world of carbon-producing engines people feel the need to continue to drive big trucks that never haul a single thing because of the cool factor, regardless of climate damage.  We may be offended by people speaking about socialism and the costs involved in public services, or we may be offended by the 1% model of capitalism without even understanding the concept of a mixed-economy and how capitalism has never been tried by any modern society; we may be offended by the idea that two men can get married, or that a woman has a right to an abortion.  But what happens when we censor freedom of speech?  What happens when we decide that you have the right to an opinion provided the way you express that opinion doesn’t offend anyone?  Uniforms?  It’s not an easy discussion to have, but avoiding the discussion won’t make the problem go away.  I think the social dialogue that needs to happen isn’t so much about language as it is about dialogue, discussing the roots of offences, why people are offended and offending, and more importantly:  why people would rather hold on to the offences than move towards a resolution?

We’re comfortable being offended.  Our society is set up to be comfortable.  Saint Francis challenged this model of behaving when he took active choices to face, embrace, and move past the victim perpetrator model.  He did this when, after being confronted with a bigger in his father’s shop that was turned away, he chose to go after and give alms.  He made the choice when he stepped off his horse, crossed the road and embraced the leper.  He made the choice when he gave up his life, took on the robes of a beggar, and became a friar.  These are the challenges I deal with regularly.  I choose to be socially challenging, to cross the road and embrace the leper as a way of embracing my own leprosy.  But in doing so, I need to remember that if at any time I take value in being a leprosy I will be finding myself back on that horse on the other side of the road.

As a gay man, I’m confronted with satire every day.  Its not as bad for a lot of people because I’m not black, I’m not aboriginal.  I’m a middle age white man that nobody notices when they say “fag” in the context of a conversation, or talk about how “gay” something is.  I’m ignored when people talk about how disgusting “those people” are for taking a knee, because in most minds I’m one of the crowd.  I’m not a part of the group that is oppressed.  But in the same vein, I’m also the person who hears the comments about religious people and how they have their heads up their asses.  How faith and queerness are somehow at odds.  When you aren’t noticed, it’s very easy for people to assume you’re not effected when in fact you are.

The Trump presidency does effect me.  It effects the part of my family that is Trans.  It effects potentially the parts of my family that want to get married, or express rights as individuals in courts of law.  It effects me as a traveler, who right now feels afraid about traveling in the United States unless I’m going to California or New York.  It effects me because as someone who lives in a province where Trump is as a rule supported, and Trump-isms are becoming the norm for conservatives both nationally and locally, I have to wonder if my rights are about to go under the knife.  I have to wonder if one day I will have to fight again for the right to marry my boyfriend, or adopt children, because that image might be too uncomfortable for someone.

It’s about taking on the opposing view, even for a moment, or for a while, to see if you can understand why that view may have value.

As a Franciscan, and as a Catholic, I have to face satire every day that I wake up, every day that I pray the Office, or going to Mass. And it may not be what you’re inclined to believe it is.  It is a satirical comment that was attached to a cross, a comment made to stir up a response from those who saw it, those who needed to bend their perspectives and consider what they have done, what they believed to be orthodox.  It is a statement I as a practicing Catholic have to contend with every day of my life, a statement that reminds me that truth transcends satire, transcends imagery and ideas and rests inside our souls.

INRI

Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum

Jesus of Nazarus, King of the Jews.

Social justice shouldn’t be about removing the images that are offensive.  Social justice needs to be about embracing them, confronting them, and resolving in our own souls what it is that is at the bottom of our offence.  At the end of the day I want to embrace the process of reconciliation and the action of being in reconciliation, rather than owning, embracing, and spinning my wheels in offence.  (Siri did type offence as offal.  Well played, Siri.  Well played.)

The last few months I’ve been trying to find ways to express my desire to be involved in community activism again. So when I went to the Queen City Pride AGM last night, I wasn’t sure what to expect except I knew that I wanted to get back into working with Pride.

The last time I was involved with a Pride committee we met in a member’s living room and had an operating budget of well under $500.  I think I went into the AGM naive, thinking this would be pretty much the same kind of experience.  It was not.  Pride has become a well oiled machine with a bigger budget and a bigger festival.  Regina’s now home to the longest Pride festival in Canada.  Parade attendance has tripled in size since the last time I was at a parade.

I felt awkward, and a little daunted because the format has changed so much, the language has entered into a place that I’m a little unfamiliar with (I’m someone that hasn’t had much exposure to non-binary individuals, and my classic english trained mind has difficulty wrapping around the idea of “they” being a singular pronoun not used by a monarch).  I’m starting at the bottom, and I expected that was going to be the case because I’m coming out of the shadows after almost 20 years of hiding.

Towards the end of the meeting the subject came up regarding uniformed officers marching in the Pride parade.  I’m not totally sure if the police are marching with us in Regina, or if this is an issue, but I know that for some people this has been on our minds.

A few months ago I held the opinion that police officers should be permitted to march with the uniform on.  Then I met someone with a different perspective on the matter and I decided to maybe think a little bit harder on the matter.  That, like dealing with wasps in your garden, can be tricky and uncomfortable if you’re not prepared.  A great tool set for this kind of endeavour can be found in this article here.

So what I learned actually changed my perspective in a few ways.  The best way to describe the transition is to talk about how the conversation flowed last night.

The subject came up and the opinion was expressed that when we limit who can participate and how they participate we are closing the door on a very important aspect of the inclusiveness of our society.

Then I raised the point that I, as a Franciscan Friar, marching in the parade in full habit might make people feel uncomfortable because (without knowing about my denomination, or knowing me), they might draw a conclusion based on the significance of that “uniform”.

Making a judgement based on appearance is something we all do.  Those judgements are based upon definitions that we believe to be true and part of our larger world view.  So, in the case of a uniform that some individuals see as a signifier for safety, others who wear the uniform would see it as a signifier of their duty, and an aspect of pride; others still, like my friend Ashton, would see the uniform as a signifier that this is someone who needs to be feared.

Rather than run from what is making us afraid, it would be a refreshing experience to instead embrace the fear, dialogue about it, and begin a process of redefining in ways that are conducive to constructive co-operative behaviour.  Which is basically a big complicated academic way of saying:  Let’s get our terms right so we can all play together nice.

For some, this is going to be the fear of the uniform.  It’s going to be discussing openly with people who have never had that experience of the uniform in a very personal way that is going to require a risk of being vulnerable and trust.  Others may have to embrace the fear of cherished ideas and custom:  we may not see something is wrong because it affords us a great level of comfort.  It’s going to take a willingness to embrace an idea that is completely opposite to one we may hold dearly, even if it means doing so with the condition that we don’t have to continue to agree with that idea.  We’re walking a mile in someone else’s shoes.

Both sides of this issue have one thing in common:  the risk that if they continue to hold dearly the struggle, the goal of the struggle will never be achieved.  There’s a cliche conspiracy theory about how the cure for cancer has existed for decades, but that if the cure was permitted to be used in medicine the industry of fighting cancer would collapse.  I often think that we have settled in the same way.  Pride as a political movement was begun to say no to the establishment, no to having to hide behind barriers the establishment had set for us.  If we in turn set up the same barriers, are we not becoming the establishment we had fought against for so many years?  And yet, should we not as a minority within society afford the same compassion and love to the minorities within our own communities regardless of how uncomfortable we feel?

It’s too easy to hide the discomfort, to run from it, to celebrate around it.  It needs to have the blankets ripped off of it, it needs to be exposed to the light of day, and it needs to have the power it has over us taken from it and put into the place where it needs to be.

The point was brought up during the meeting that if dialogue like this were to take place, it would be impossible for that dialogue to reach everyone who needed it.  It isn’t possible to hear everyone.  What is possible is for the people who are heard, the people who experience a kind of reconciliation to take that transformative experience out into their own micro-communities and continue the momentum.  To not proceed with dialogue because everyone can’t speak and be heard at the same time is a foolish logic.   You give up before you start, and nothing changes.  It’s too convenient.

At the end of the night, I told my boyfriend that I’d be willing to serve with Pride and get my roots down if that meant pushing broom, making phone calls, sealing envelopes, or leading workshops in Spirituality from a Queer Perspective.  Whatever it takes.  I have to start from the ground up all over again.  Having an open perspective on things makes this challenge a little less daunting and a lot more exciting.

You don’t grow a garden by just thinking about it.  You put seeds in the ground and you wait, sometimes for a very long time, sometimes for a time that seems longer than what you expect, until something sprouts out of the ground and renews your faith in all things wonderful.

After the meeting, my boyfriend and I went to a cafe to talk about how I felt about what had happened and enjoy a drink and a piece of pie.  We sat on a couch together, he put his arm around me, and we talked casually.  The gentleman sitting behind us was visibly uncomfortable by this even though the majority of people in the cafe couldn’t care less.

Ironic.

 

One of the raised garden beds in the back of the yard is made from old cindercrete blocks stacked up, the internal space lined with weed-barrier, then a big pile of old wood, then compost and soil from the garden.  The idea behind this way of doing things is that the wood retains water, and as it rots, provides nutrients to the soil and warmth.  In a way it’s like an active compost bin that you grow plants in.  This particular bed is for tomatoes, cucumbers, chard, a watermelon that may or may not produce, and some Mediterranean  herbs (basil, thyme, rosemary).

The space however has become home to some wasps.  Earlier in the year I didn’t mind the fact that they were there because they didn’t bother me, and I apparently wasn’t bothering them.  But last night when I went to pick a couple of cucumbers for my mom, I realized that as I lifted the vine from the side of the bed, the wasps were acting to defend their nest.  A swarm of about 15 wasps came flying out, looking at me, wondering what I was about, and wondering if I was a threat.  Wasps tend to sting/bite first, ask questions later.  My experience is based purely on the number of times I’ve been stung.  At times, wasp stings have felt spiteful, angry, cruel.  They occur without apparent reason and as I’ve gotten older, result in swelling and burning.

Anxiety often behaves like a wasp sting.

I got some text messages today, work related, that under any normal circumstance wouldn’t matter.  But for some reason today there was a sting.  My stomach tightened up, my body fills up with a kind of mauve-green feeling, a tremor followed by tickle in the stomach which isn’t pleasant; it’s like the beginning of a stomach upset.  The feeling doesn’t go away.  It lingers.  In the moments following, your mind is pushed into defensive thought:  how can I protect myself?  You shift into isolating yourself from the incident that created the anxiety to try and bring an end to it.  I send a text asking to be removed from these messages in the future.

Which from their side of this is going to seem bizarre, strange, odd; there’ll be head shaking, there’ll be “here we go again, the drama queen is at it again”.  I can’t help it.  Many people in my life have tried to find an explanation for why I have these episodes.  They’ve theorized that I’m having late-stage teen temper tantrums, that I’m trying to get out of doing tasks by making excuses.  Again and again, I keep telling them my experience until I find myself, literally at the point of realizing that they just don’t get it, they don’t want to get it.

But you have to go on.  You can’t stop.  So I attempt to embrace the anxiety.  I call it what it is, a chemical reaction that I have no present understanding as to why it is triggered some days and not triggered others.  You hope that people won’t be disappointed if it gets in the way, and in the next breath you realize that what I am experiencing is no different than what a diabetic experiences if they require insulin.

I’ve considered medication.  I know that some people have had success with meds.  But I’ve also watched people who have medicated walk into a more out-of-control state of being than I experience now.  I’ve decided that the moments of anxiety when they happen, and they’re happening with a lot less frequency now, are easier to accept than the moments that I would experience contending with medications that are possibly messing my brain chemistry more than I am on my own.

Saint Francis asked his gardeners to leave a patch of the ground for weeds to grow, weeds to flower and in their own way exhibit the praises of God in the action of a plant.  I’m not sure if these episodes are exhibits of praise from my brain, but they’re definitely weeds.  At times, they’re even wasps.  The true art of the gardener is to allow a balance to exist between weeds (nature) and intentional planting.  This is the act of faith, that in moving forward into what it is I have to do, the anxiety will diminish in it’s severity and control.

 

I was recently at a family event, and one of my cousin’s came up to me and said:  I really like your blog!  You should post more!  Or something to that effect.

I woke up this morning with absolutely no intention of even looking at the blog.  I’m going to the Queen City Ex with my family and my new boyfriend!  Yet, here I am, sitting at my coffee table in my living room in the house that is my hermitage, blogging.

As a gardener, you sometimes have to make decisions with long-term perspective.  Cut out the grass to make room for a flower bed, remove one form of diversity of ecosystem in order to create a more diversified section of the ecosystem.  Diversity equals health, both in terms of plant material and wildlife.

But in the case of a blogger, and a busy person, it can make for an added encumbrance.  I’m going to try to start blogging again! It’s late in the season, but I can still tell some of the stories of the experiences I’ve had in the garden over the past year; but I’m also going to be shifting what I was doing over at OFAJourney here as well to try and tighten it up a bit and make it a little easier.  So on top of the gardening, there’s going to be some reflection and musings about my life as a Franciscan novice and seminary student.  Nothing too heavy hopefully, but just enough to maybe spark some conversations in your own circles.

On that note!  A lot has changed, mostly for the positive, and I can’t wait to start telling the story of the last year or so.  So stay tuned!

So in true form, I’ve been a hermit.  I realize it’s almost been six months since my last post about the garden, but there’s been something holding me back from writing–not something negative per say, just a need to be still, to not engage with text, to simply let things happen as they need to.

Our house is almost finished.  It’s been a long time waiting for it to finally get to the stage of moving in, but the final touches are happening over the next few weeks and with any luck we will be able to move in by the end of February, which means that there won’t be a long drive over to the yard but instead I’ll get out of bed, lift my curtains, and look out my window.  I’ve held off on buying seeds for now because I don’t want to order on the off chance that they’ll end up being delivered to the wrong address, but I am keeping an eye on the gladiolas in my closet that will have to be cleaned up before putting into the ground.

And I’ve been saving seeds!  Tomato plants, a couple of kinds of squash, and some geraniums that happened to go to seed (who knew if you didn’t pinch off the flowers they oblige so nicely and give you seed!).  This is also going to be the year that I try square foot gardening in the hugelkulture  beds that I set up in the back yard.  Which also means, I’m going to have to let my brother’s friend know we will need his chainsaw to remove the lilac overgrowth.

Did I mention I discovered how stringy old growth lilac wood is?  I actually thought that in taking a couple of hedge clippers and a hand saw, I’d be able to clear out the lilac wood in just a matter of a couple of days.  After an hour on one of about 450-500 (I’m guessing) thick trunks I realized that I was going to need something mechanical, a truck to haul the excess wood away, and hoped that I wouldn’t need the opportunity to get in touch with humility through a lilac stump ever again.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’m excited at the prospect of being so close to the space that I’ve grown so fond of.  I’d also be lying if I didn’t say that the prospect of leaving the safety of the home we’ve had for so long wasn’t a little bit daunting.  Transitions are difficult when they mean shaking the safety of physical places for other physical spaces.  Why I don’t just accept the possibility of having that safety within my own heart, I’ll never know.  It takes so much practice to keep that in mind, consistently in mind, and not revert into that jelly mess of panic and anxiety and fear.

I wonder if seeds feel this way before they leave the packets?