Haiku Hankerings -- The Start of My Brief Poetic Journey

When I made my first haiku, it was on a trip with my haiku teacher and some of his poet friends to Iga-Ueno, a town in Mie Prefecture, where Matsuo Basho, the founder of haiku poetry, was born and raised. (A prefecture, for those of you not used to the term, is like a state in the U.S., or a province in Canada.) It was quite fitting to make my first haiku there; interestingly enough, Iga-Ueno is also known for another feature-- it's the birthplace of the ninja, and there is even a ninja museum there.  Because of this fact, some people believe that Matsuo Basho made his trip to the northern part of Japan in 1689 as a ninja spy. (This is probably because the timeline of his trip, as reported in the reports he made about it, would be difficult to do for normal humans; I guess none of these people ever heard of artistic license, but I digress.)

We were deep in the countryside when we came upon a temple by the name of Kokubun-ji in Japanese. ("Ji" represents 'temple', so it could be translated as 'Kokubun Temple'.)  The temple name seems to be fairly common, as there is another, much more famous Kokubun Temple that played a part in the founding of the country of Japan, but it's located in a different prefecture. This smaller Kokubun Temple was just a rural temple, and I didn't even see a priest there as we walked around on that dreary February day when the weather was skittish. Small rain showers (called "shigure" in Japanese) could be seen in the distance and a few sprinkles fell on us, too, but not enough to call off the trip.

As we wandered around the temple grounds, my poet companions were busy trying to come up with the perfect haiku. Meanwhile, my haiku teacher was telling me about the basics-- the 5-7-5 syllabic structure, the use of a word to denote the season, and so on, which I already knew from my elementary school education.  I was still skeptical about trying my hand at writing haiku, but I listened to him. One thing I found about poetry in Japan is that their poetic sense can be vastly different than American sense.  A full moon, for example, occurs in any month, but in Japanese poetry the moon somehow represents winter. I also knew that the Japanese were far less direct than Americans about expressing their opinions and feelings in public. In my college courses on Japanese literature, for example, I was told that Japanese typically didn't directly talk about crying-- they used euphemisms like "my sleeves are wet from the dew", or "the gentle rain falls" to express sadness. Anyway, even while I had my reservations about my skills as a poet, I still kept an open mind and tried to take in as much as I could about the words and phrases I heard my teacher mention so I might be able to use them in the future if I ever decided to write haiku.

In the interior of the temple grounds, there was a 'small mountain'-- I guess you could call it a hill because it wasn't that high, but it was steep, and formed from volcanic upheaval like the rest of the Japanese archipelago.  There was a small waterfall rolling down one side of it, which I found very neat, but assumed that it might have been a man-made system, as there was not enough rainfall to account for the stream. Going up the side of the 'mountain' was a very wide set of stairs, and each step on the stairs was covered with hundreds of small Buddhist statues, and most of them were decorated with some small red cloth. There had to be at least a thousand of them in all, and for such a small country temple, it seemed strikingly odd.  I asked my teacher about them, and he explained that each of the statues was of Jizo, the Buddhist protector of children. Jizo escorts the souls of children to Paradise, so each of these statues represented the death of a child, whether it was an infant, stillborn, or aborted. The local women would make small jackets or caps to put on the statues so they wouldn't get 'cold'. That alone was enough to make me feel sad, but there was one more thing in the temple grounds that broke my heart...

Small mountain of Jizo statues (not the ones at Kokubun Temple)

In the center of the grounds, there was a larger (life-size?) statue of Jizo standing on a wooden platform. The statue held a baby in one hand.  Dangling from the wooden framework on which the statue stood, just below the statue's feet hung a large Mickey Mouse doll.  When I realized that the doll meant that the child was dead, tears welled up in my eyes.  All of the preparation of the parents, all of the expectation and all of the joy of bringing new life into the world had come crashing down around the family with the death of the child. I will never know how the child died, but I imagined some young woman was crying in inconsolable despair for their lost loved one, whose journey through life ended so abruptly, so early. The overwhelming sadness was too much to bear, and yet... and yet, out of that, came the words that brought together all of the college coursework, all of what I had heard from my teacher, and from out of the blue, I had my first-ever haiku: 

時雨（しぐれ）ふる　　   旅（たび）のはじめや     　国分寺（こくぶんじ）
Early spring drizzle       At the start of the journey     Kokobun Temple

You see, sadness is not expressed directly in Japanese; the early spring drizzle expresses the sadness I felt.  The start of the journey represents the journey of life; and when life has just begun, or was just about to begin, but ended so early for these children remembered at Kokubun Temple through the offerings to Jizo, it is truly sad...and even to this day, the sight of all those statuettes and that doll is fresh in my memory, as a collective impression of the parents who lost their hopes and dreams in Japan...

I checked my Japanese syllables feverishly... 5... 7... 5!  Perfect!  When my haiku teacher asked me on the train back home if I had been able to create any haiku, I gave him the above poem, and he broke into a grin.  "Just like Master Basho!" he said, and I felt really, really proud of myself, and I was on my way to writing more.   

 

My Most Embarrassing Moment

When I taught English Composition in Japan, I had a very funny, very embarrassing experience which I will try to share with you.  First of all, in Japan in the 1980's, male teachers where I taught were expected to wear at least a white shirt with tie, if not a full suit.  So I dressed up every day when I went to work.  Secondly, the classrooms in Japan are LARGE.  In many Japanese high schools, there are typically 45-50 students per classroom, so there is a platform at the front of the classroom on which the teacher stands so the students in back can see (so they can stick their comic books or personal notes or spitball shooters away before the teacher gets too close.)  The platform is not that high, maybe only 5-6 inches, but high enough for this story.

At the time this embarrassing event occurred, I was teaching my students about prepositions, and was trying to explain the difference between ‘in’ and ‘into’.  I came up with the brilliant idea of showing them the difference.  So I stood by the door, and said “I am IN the classroom.”  Then I walked out, and walked back in, and as I came in, I said “I am walking INTO the classroom.”  Some seemed to get it, some did not.  Using the “shampoo method” of teaching, (“lather, rinse, repeat”) I did the same thing several times.  One of my brighter students asked me if the verb “walk” was the only verb that used “INTO”, and I said, “No, you can jump into the room" (so I went into the hallway and jumped into the room,) and then I added, "And you can run into the room... “   And this is when the trouble began.

I went into the hallway with the intention of running into the classroom.  And I did.  Until my foot caught on the edge of the platform.  Then I proceeded to do a full-body smash onto the floor.  The whole building shook, I think.  People in nearby classrooms probably thought it was an earthquake or a chemical explosion.  The vibrations were so severe, that the chalkboard eraser sitting on the shelf just below the chalkboard bounced up and off the shelf... and landed right on my head.  And not just the top of my head, but on my face.  The left side of my face, to be exact.  When I stood up, there was not a student in their seat.  They were all rolling on the floor, clutching their sides in raucous laughter.  They were pointing at me and laughing.  When I checked my appearance in the mirror by the chalkboard, I saw a crimson-red face half-covered with white and yellow chalk.  I, too, pointed at my reflection and started laughing hysterically. The students who had been able to compose themselves were once again on the floor, laughing hysterically with me. The room was nothing but laughter for about 10 minutes.  When it calmed down, I said, “Well, you can FALL into the room, too!”  And again the laughter started... 

While the situation was embarrassing, and funny as hell, it also led to something special—respect.  After that day, the students of that class treated me with more respect than I had ever received before.  They knew I was serious about my joy of teaching—but they knew I could also laugh at myself.  They knew that I had a lust for life, a yen for Zen (I had a shaved head, and talked about my Buddhist practice from time to time, and had a mind as sharp as a tack, and a heart of gold.  Compared to the horror stories they heard from their fellow students who studied under my Australian counterpart, I was a patient and kind teacher, who genuinely cared about them.  At the end of the school year, the students came up to me, and asked me to take a picture with them.  They framed it and gave me a copy, which I have to this day.  That was also the year I was voted “Teacher of the Year” .  Good, good memories all around.

Haiku Hankerings Part II

During the summer of 1989, I used my summer vacation (I was teaching at a private girls' school at the time) to see just what it must have been like for Matuso Basho, the founder of the haiku form of poetry, on his travels to the northern part of Japan, who used his journey in 1689 as the basis for "The Narrow Road to the Deep North".  My trek just happened to coincide with the 300th anniversary of Basho's journey, or so the posters in the train stations claimed.  I was unaware of that fact when I set out, but it really didn’t matter. My intention was to make the same journey (as much as I could, anyway) that Basho and Sora, his travel companion and fellow poet, did.  I did not make any hotel reservations in advance, for example, and relied on finding a place to lay my head when I got to wherever I was.  I also decided I would try to walk as much of the trip as possible, starting with a short trip to Kurobane, a city northwest of Tokyo.  (I figured I would get out of Tokyo by train, as it was far too crowded and noisy to offer much in terms of quiet meditative moods.)  So, I hopped off the Shinkansen (“bullet train”) at the station closest to Kurobane and started walking. (The trek to Kurobane would take about an hour on foot.)

On the way there, a couple of public buses stopped and the drivers asked if I wanted a ride.  I declined both times. I eventually stopped for a breather at a roadside rest. It was a small place, more of a convenience store for those driving by.  I was about to pick up my bags and set out when the woman proprietor came out and waved me down. “Please sit,” she said, and quickly brought out some freshly cut watermelon. She hastily explained that her son, who was due back from college "at any moment" would be very happy to see me. So I waited, and sure enough, a few minutes later, a young Japanese man pulled up to the stand in his car.  I got involved with singing Beatles songs while he played the guitar.  I know beer was involved. I am still amazed to this day that some Japanese won't speak a lick of English in conversation, but can recite every lyric of their favorite songs without hesitation. They asked me what I was doing in that part of Japan, and had a hard time believing that I was going to try to walk all the way to Kurobane, much less northern Japan.  The mother mentioned a temple in the area that was 'worth visiting'.  She said her son could take me to the temple in his car. No, I wanted to walk, I replied.  The son agreed to accompany me to the temple.  (See photo below.)

I asked the family about a place to stay.  They called the local pension, which is a word the Japanese borrowed from the English and applied to something totally different. It’s basically an inn, and that is where I ended up for the night. I arrived later than normal, just as they were about to empty the bath water, but I was able to convince them to let me use it first.  (Many people can use the same bath water in Japan; one must thoroughly wash and rinse oneself BEFORE climbing into the tub so as to not dirty the water.  It’s OK to use the hot bath water during this process, but the cleaning is done OUTSIDE the tub, and great care is taken so that the soapy suds do not get into the tub.)  I gingerly took off my socks and quickly examined the blisters that had formed on my first day of travel.  The fact that I had already developed fairly large blisters did not bode well for the rest of my trip. On a good note, to my surprise, there was a small stone in the inn's garden inscribed with one of Matsuo Basho's poems.

The next morning I “cheated”, and took a bus back to the city of Utsunomiya, a major stop on the "Shinkansen", and then from there I took the train to the town of Nikko.  Nikko is a very famous resort community famous for several things, one of which is its proximity to the Toshogu Shrine, which was built by the Tokugawa dynasty. The shrine is most famous for its intricate carvings of various wildlife, including three monkeys who “hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil.”  I could have easily spent a few hours at this shrine and its environs, as I’m sure the Emperors of the past have done, as this resort was originally built for the royal family.  

Some distance from the Toshogu Shrine is the Kegon waterfalls that originate as the water spills from the lip of Lake Chuzenji, which formed in the basin created by the mountains near Nikko, to the gorge below. It’s not that often that one can view the falls: many times the weather is dismal and the clouds droop too low and block the view.  At other times, the spray from the falls obscures one’s vision.  Sometimes, during periods of drought, there is not enough water flowing from the lip of Lake Chuzenji to create the falls.  The falls are over 3.5 hours away from Nikko Station on foot, so I had a lofty goal set for me.

Sticking with my plan to walk the trail of Basho, I set out from Nikko station, went to the Toshogu Shrine, and confirmed that the monkeys were still there. My feet were already protesting about the pain, but I pressed on.  After thoroughly examining the nooks and crannies of the shrine, I trudged on toward the i-ro-ha-zaka, the “alphabet slope” that led up to Lake Chuzenji and the entry to the Kegon Falls.  The slope is given that name because there is a hairpin curve for every one of the letters of the Japanese phonetic alphabet.  The Japanese version of our “ABC” song waxes much more poetic, but I still can’t sing if it you wanted me to.  Anyway, I trudged on... and on... and further on while people in cars and buses stared at the sweaty foreigner walking funnily on the sides of his feet, probably wondering what I was doing.  I was even offered a ride by someone who told me I can’t walk to the falls, but adamant in my desire to walk like Basho walked, I turned them down.  I would prove to them and my feet that I could do what I set out to do!

When I got to the base of the curvaceous mountain slope, I came upon a gigantic sign that listed prohibitions of various kinds, mainly this one:  “Due to the dangerous nature of the  hairpin curves ahead, ABSOLUTELY NO PEDESTRIANS ARE ALLOWED beyond this point!” Muttering a few choice words, I begrudgingly bought a bus ticket to the mountaintop and climbed on the bus. In mere minutes, we were on our way, and as we went through the curves, I looked out the window.  I could not see the ground underneath us—just the fir-covered ravine stretching down, down, and down.  After a few more curves, I had to look away because it was getting a little nauseating.  Instead, I kept my eyes out for the little monkeys that appeared from time to time next to the signs warning passengers not to feed them.  Judging by the items left on the ground at the monkeys’ feet, I would have to guess the signs weren’t very effective.

On the way to the top, the bus driver announced that the falls would not be visible due to the cloud coverage. At the top, I alit from the bus and began wandering around.  With wincing steps, I followed the path leading down to the trail that went to the falls. I followed it, paid my fee to get in, walked down the narrow steps as others came up, grumbling about not being able to see anything.  I took the elevator down and emerged into the mist-filled chambers, and when I walked outside, the clouds parted and revealed the Kegon Falls in all its glory, as the recent rains had been sufficient to make them quite magnificent.

 And that is when I created the following haiku:

                                                        長旅の  　疲れ忘れる   滝の音    
                         The journey is long / But the fatigue forgotten / Rumbling waterfalls


As a side note, after seeing the Kegon Falls, I sat on the shores of Lake Chuzenji for a while to consider my options about the rest of my trip.  I knew it was no longer possible to walk to every stop, especially since my feet were aching terribly, so I decided to take public transportation to the strategic spots, and then walk when I could. I took a bus back to Nikko Station, then the train to Utsunomiya, where I found a hotel for the night.  I checked in and headed straight for the bath tub. I pulled off my shoes to find my white socks had turned red because my feet were bleeding. As I soaked my feet in the tub (and drained the water and cleaned the tub after), I reviewed and revised my plans, but had no idea of the various thrills and challenges waiting for me in northern Japan.   

Haiku Hankerings

The joy of reading a book in classical Japanese is probably experienced by only a few Westerners.  There are probably many more who have had to struggle to read and dissect a work in classical Japanese for a dissertation or something, but I am talking about joy-- no strings attached, pure, unadulterated joy.  I have read several works in classical Japanese, just for the sake of reading them, to see what wisdom I could gleam from them.  I can say that they’ve all had a large impact on my life, so I will share several anecdotes about them...

Many of you reading this may have encountered classical Japanese (in translation) and didn't even know it. I first encountered a form of classical Japanese in the fifth grade of elementary school, when we studied haiku.  Haiku, for those of you who don’t remember the lesson, is a short poem of 5-7-5 syllables, and traditionally includes a word that indicates the season.  When I was given the homework to create my own haiku, I remember using the word butterfly, but over the years have lost the context.  However, the basics for writing haiku poems have stayed with me for decades.   

Over the years, and through college, I remember encountering other haiku-like poems, mostly by Ezra Pound.  It was all the rage back then, I guess, and it made me feel like I had been born in the wrong time.  I was sure I could write haiku if I really tried, but that was the key—I never really tried. That is, until I went to Japan. I went to Japan to investigate the possibility of going to graduate school, but ended up teaching English at private high schools for seven years. The first five years I lived and taught in the major industrial city of Nagoya, located in the central area of Japan. 

My interest in haiku blossomed under the tutelage of an engineer I met at the local bus stop in Nagoya while on my way to work one morning.  I had started teaching English, and had a commute that was about 20 minutes long.  I had seen him at the bus stop before—a white-haired Japanese man that, as it turns out, had been eyeing me for some time in hopes that he could practice his English on me. He worked at the factory that was located near the school where I taught, but his house was just beyond the bamboo grove across the street from where I lived.  One morning he saw his opportunity, sat next to me on the bus, and started asking questions, and that was how our friendship started.

Over time, we gradually came to know each others' interests.  It was he who introduced me to his friend when I told him I was interested in studying Buddhism, and that's how I ended up going to a temple near the center of Nagoya for Zen meditation on Friday nights when I had the chance.  When I began to study Buddhist texts, he helped me with some of the difficult words.  He was quite the intelligent man, and a poet, as I was to discover.

As my interest in Buddhism grew, so did my interest in Japanese literature.  I would spend my time after work or during the extended summer vacation reading.  I read most of the works of Natsume Soseki, an early twentieth century Japanese writer, and delved into some classical Japanese literature.  I finished reading “Hojoki” (An Account of My Hut, written in 1212) and progressed into another easy work, “Oku no Hosomichi” (Narrow Road to the Deep North, written in the later years of the 17th century after the famous haiku poet Matsuo Basho took a trip to Northern Japan in 1689) at the recommendation of my new friend.  We would go over the contents of what I was reading in his study.

 

My engineer friend talked to me about poetry, and encouraged me to give it a shot.  I didn’t believe I had the skill, so I fudged on the issue.  After we began to know each other a little more, he kept asking me if I wanted to go places with him on short day trips.  At first, I turned him down, only because my finances were pretty tight.  After I found a little more financial leeway, I finally accepted his invitation, and met him and his friends for a little excursion into the countryside.  As it turns out, he had an ulterior motive: he and his friends were all poets and had formed a ginko-kai, which is basically a group of people who have come together to create poetry based on their trips.

I eventually caved in and joined my friend on short trips to various places in Japan.  He would point out various phenomena and tell me the Japanese words for it, and I would later look up the words in the dictionary.  That is how I learned that Daphne bloomed near the path that I took to work, and that the Japanese called the sudden rain when the sun is shining “kitsune no yomeiri”, literally “a fox marriage”.  An early spring drizzle was “shigure”.  We visited various places, even made a trip to the birthplace of the man most famous for haiku, Matsuo Basho. 

My haiku teacher praised me for my sensitivity.  It was more likely pure luck, but even I liked some of the poems that I produced.  Some of the better ones were put into a magazine my friend published, so I have the right to say I am a published poet.  One of the first ones later proved to be the key to a great practical joke that I played on a Board of Education member in northern Japan, and I will get to that later.  Another early poem won first place at the monthly ginko-kai meeting, and that made me very proud.

My mother’s cookies                  How I want to eat them now!                   Golden autumn leaves

The Japanese original differs slightly than my English translation of the same poem.  In the Japanese version, the fall foliage of the tochi (Japanese horse-chestnut) tree is the centerpiece.  These leaves, as I learned the day I created the poem, are fairly long, and when they dry up, they turn yellow and curl into hollow cigar shapes.  When the other members of the poetry group were walking around the park, they stepped on the fallen leaves and made a crunching sound with every step.  With the aroma from a nearby bakery wafting through the chilly autumn air, and the being surrounded by crunching leaves, I was taken back to my hometown, and my mother’s homemade breads and chocolate chip cookies, and the daydream of those delectable delights brought me to the verge of drooling and a huge wave of ensuing homesickness brought forth the poem.  

(More on my haiku experience in future posts.)

Losing My Religion to Gain My Faith

   I am growing tired of the word “Christian” because it tends to be overused by people who claim it as a descriptive for themselves and yet possess few or none of the qualities that Jesus Christ exemplified for us. It is to the point where I am now hesitant to call myself a Christian, knowing that such a claim puts me in the same company as quite a few unsavory characters. I am most disgusted when politicians, especially the conservative ones, co-opt the word Christian to describe themselves when it's obvious they are no more Christian than a box of cereal. Placing a veneer of Christian ideology over one's self-aggrandizing attitudes in an attempt to pander to the "Moral Majority" (which is neither moral nor the majority) or the "Religious Right" is ridiculously inane, yet I find plenty of people willing to support these politicians who callously do so.  Where is the Christ-like behavior that qualifies these people as Christian?  Now, I’m absolutely willing to forgo any expectations about performing those extraordinary miracles mentioned in the Bible— that is, I really don’t expect anyone to walk on water or change water into wine or even raise the dead to prove they deserve to use the label of Christian--because, honestly, there is no empirical evidence that Jesus actually did any of the above miracles either. If we're serious enough, we will admit that every religion adorns their leaders with extraordinary features-- Jesus Christ is not the first to be born of a virgin, nor is he the first to heal, the first to make extraordinary events happen, and so on, so for the remainder of this blog, let's set those miraculous events aside and focus strictly on the side of human capabilities.

   Maybe my issues with Christians stem from my expecting them to be kind, considerate, and compassionate, and acting with humility in a spirit of service and finding that type of Christian to be quite rare. Instead, I hear "Christian" pastors boast of their material wealth as proof that God has shown them divine favor while callously ignoring members of their own congregation that are struggling financially.  One pastor I know was quite audacious about it-- in one service he touted his latest 'blessing', a new Armani suit-- not just a new suit, it was Armani--and then  brazenly announced his next "blessing" would be a Harley Davidson motorcycle. (I am aware that some churches promote the 'name it and claim it' form of wish fulfillment, but this begs me to ask the question-- why does the Bible repeatedly emphasize the rejection of all worldly trappings and admonish us to get rid of our material wealth and store up "treasures in heaven" instead?) And to see the pastor stake his claim with a smirk on his face even while the people in the front pews on the other side of the church looked like they hadn't had a square meal in days made me feel horrible. I wanted to stand up and walk out of the church in protest, and I'm sad that I did not take the time to do so. 

   North Carolina minister Charles L. Worley is an example of another "Christian"; he said that since gays cannot reproduce, all gays should be put in concentration camps until the gay population naturally dies out. His level of ignorance is astounding.  I personally would prefer that we round up the ignorant buffoons who use the Christian pulpit to promote hate speech so they can be removed from the gene pool but, alas, we Americans still allow hate speech as a Constitutional right. But, notwithstanding the fact that children, regardless of their sexual orientation, are most often the result of a sexual act between people of opposite sexes (in vitro fertilization being the obvious exception to the case), and the fact that many gays have had children and raised them-- and surprise(!), their offspring in most cases are heterosexual-- how can the clueless Rev. Worley believe he is in alignment with what Jesus taught or demonstrated? There is no scripture about Jesus encountering a gay person, so we have to extrapolate by looking at how he treated others. When I read those Bible stories of Jesus, I see him portrayed as a man who broke every established custom, and even the established Jewish legal code about social behavior, to reach out to women, people of other races, poor people, sick people, people of other faiths, and many others; he also rebuked the Pharisees who attempted to push their sanctimonious lack of compassion on the prostitute who was found in flagrante delicto.  So when I hear "Christians" make such flagrantly asinine statements about gays, lesbians, transgendered people, etc., I know those "Christians" are not Christian at all. 

   I believe if you're going to label yourself as a Christian, you should be more than willing to emulate Christ and ignore the ‘societal barriers’ that were formed out of uncompromising legalistic beliefs and reach out to those outside the 'mainstream', i.e., the disenfranchised,  wherever they are in their walk in life. If you can't treat women, poor people, sick people, gays, lesbians, transgendered people, people of other faiths, people of other races, people in prison, scientists, atheists, people who are politically powerless, oppressed people, and those who are undergoing one form of hardship or another with the same or greater level of respect and courtesy that you give your friends, and in the exact same way you want to be treated or better, then your use of the word “Christian” as a label should be automatically  revoked.

   Being Christ-like does not mean you get to enforce your biases or limited understanding of centuries-old legalistic choices on others; Jesus did not, so you do not get to either.  You are not holy and living at some loftier standard than everyone else. I don’t care if you are a nun, priest, pastor, church elder, or the pope himself; I don't care if you have tithed all of your life, attended every Sunday church service for decades, or teach Sunday School: you don’t get to set the bar for everyone else’ behavior based on your personal beliefs of holiness. "Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than sitting in a garage makes you a car," the saying goes, but this concept seems to fall on deaf ears for so many wannabe Christian spokespeople. I have no idea why so many allow themselves to be duped by sanctimonious leaders who claim to support Christianity but never exert Christ-like behavior. 

   Now in the interest of full disclosure, let me explain a little about my 'Christian upbringing' and maybe you will have a better understanding of my point of view.  I was raised as a Methodist-- by that I meant my parents took me to a rural Methodist church once a week, usually with my father griping all the way there and back. Once in a great while we would go back mid-week for the ice cream social (in summer) or a Christmas special (in winter.) The church was about seven miles from home, at the edge of a small hamlet (population: 17)  just off the highway that ran in front of our home. It was never clear why we attended that particular church until years after my suicide attempt (see my second post) when my mother explained to me that that church was the only church in the entire area that invited us to join them in worship.  We lived only a mile from a village (pop: <800) with several churches, including a Methodist one; many other churches, mostly  Lutheran or Catholic, dotted the landscape and were much closer to home, but we were never invited to visit any of them. You see, my family 'wasn't good enough' for those churches. In their eyes, my family was  irredeemable 'white trash'. 

   In the small rural church I attended, there was one family that acted as if they were the  Swiss Guard at the Vatican, so to speak.  They lived within a stone's throw from the church, and it seems that the matriarch of that family believed that living in such close proximity to the church placed them closer to God, and thus were naturally holy and able to lord over everyone else, and tried to inculcate this belief in her children as well. They were my first exposure to hypocrites, and their lessons over the years never sat well with me, and it was with some glee (I hate to admit) that I received the news that one of their daughters had a child out of wedlock. It couldn't have happened to a nicer family of Pharisees.  

   They were not the only "Christians" that treated my family like lepers. It was a theme that would repeat itself time and time again. Admittedly, the alcoholism that ran wild in my family and the large number of relatives who didn't do well in school may have been a contributor to the stigmatization of my family, but when I look back at how we were ostracized by the people in the surrounding community, I am disturbed by the hypocrisy. You see, over twenty percent of the girls in my graduating class were pregnant by the time they graduated from high school (none of them were impregnated by me or my brothers); drug use was rampant, and several of my classmates ended up dead or in jail within ten years of graduation due to their drug abuse; kids were put on the honor rolls and joined the National Honor Society but it really was their popularity and wealth that got them there, not their grades.  (If it was their grades, then I should've been a member based on my 3.98 GPA, but I was never asked to join the NHS, even though I participated in extracurricular activities (school newspaper and yearbook); I should have been the class valedictorian, but relinquished that honor because I was still suicidal and didn't give a damn when the high school counselor stripped it from me in favor of the son of his friend.)  My high school curriculum was putrid, perfect for hicks that would never amount to much of anything, and favoritism was given to "choir" and "band" (extracurricular activities) over coursework for college-bound youth. My friends joked about "Underwater Basket Weaving", a reference to the 'easy A' courses that filled most of the schedule, where mere attendance guaranteed a place on the honor roll. And the sleaziness of those kids in the NHS was covered up by the rich parents who bailed out their brats when they committed felonies. ("Yes, destroying a hundred mailboxes on a drunken joyride is a Federal crime, but he's only a minor and an honor student, Officer! Please show mercy!")  These examples were of the 'good' "Christian" kids in my community, who had the backing of their 'faithful' parents and the churches they attended.  It wasn't a huge loss to me, then, when I decided to leave the church after my failed suicide attempt in 1979. I promised myself I would never go back to church, and for many years I did not. It took the death of my father in 1989, a decade after I left the church, to make me break my promise.   

   By the time my father passed away, I had already begun going to a Zen Buddhist temple in Japan to practice meditation. I had already begun to distance myself from the Christian church in hopes of finding some spiritual development that was more palatable to me. And, for a while, I found Buddhist practice assisted in my spiritual growth just fine. In fact, on the day I heard that my father had passed away I was scheduled to give a speech in Japanese at a contest sponsored by one of the Buddhist priests I knew. In Japan, I experienced none of the stigma that I felt growing up in the U.S.; in fact, on the contrary, I was quite a popular person, and my interest in Buddhism seemed to increase the warm welcome I received from the natives. When I started shaving my head in an attempt to remind myself of my ultimate goal of becoming a Buddhist priest, some of my friends and co-workers were surprised, but at the same time they encouraged me to pursue my dreams.

   Let me make one thing absolutely clear: my Buddhist practice has never prevented me from believing in God, from trying to emulate Christ, or from having a good relationship with Jesus. It's a great shame that many Christians (and some Buddhists) believe the two are mutually exclusive, but it is only out of ignorance that fear that such claims are made. (Note: most Japanese accept a variety of religions; you can visit a Shinto shrine, go to a Buddhist temple, have your wedding performed by a Christian priest, etc. with no condemnation from others.) Yes, I understand that most of us treat Buddhism as a religion and that it has all of the trappings of a religion (due to the influence of Hinduism) but, Buddhism was originally nothing more than a philosophy developed to reducing suffering and can still be treated as a philosophy if you strip away all of those religious trappings and the Hindu pantheon that had been attached to it after the death of the historical Buddha. The historical Buddha denied being a god, and when asked whether or not he believed in a Higher Power; his reply was that no one could empirically prove the existence of such a being, so any answer would be irrelevant. So, in my view, if you strip away the miraculous adornments of a religious leader like Jesus or Buddha, there are still plenty of good qualities that remain in the teachings of either man (and in truth, they bear a close resemblance to each other) so that it doesn't hurt to follow the teachings of both of these men concurrently.  

   I can imagine the skepticism that someone with a Fundamentalist viewpoint would have about my Christian faith when reading my statements above, but to be honest, those people can mind their own business. I will let God tell me when I am stepping out of divine favor.  I do not require some intermediary to speak on my behalf when it comes to my faith. I count myself as a Christian, but temper it with the acknowledgement that I do not have the exact same beliefs as many other "Christians", and therefore render myself an outlier of sorts. And I am fine with that, because I know Jesus is fine with that as well.

  I also will leave you with this: hypocrisy is not limited to the Christian faith; I have met my share of Buddhists who do not seem to understand the basics of what Buddha taught, even though they had been practitioners of Buddhism for many years. I have met Buddhist priests who were horrible examples of humanity-- racist, womanizing, alcoholic, arrogant, greedy, seedy, compassion-less people-- all while wearing the robes that identified them as 'a step above'. I have watched some priests and in doing so learned what not to do.  But, for the most part, I have not been harassed by them, accused of wrongdoing by them, or told that my sexual orientation was 'an abomination' by them.In short, Buddhism may not be perfect either, but its adherents rarely stand up and put forth offensive remarks that make me ashamed to be associated with them, at least not as often as some "Christians" do. 

The Malaise of America-- at a Screen Near You

Is it just me, or is television becoming really disturbing lately?

Last night I visited somebody else' home while they were eating dinner.  The television set was on as they ate, and their show of choice was "Hoarders: Buried Alive", a TLC program.  TLC was once "The Learning Channel" but now TLC obviously means The Lowest Crap. Why these people could eat while watching "Hoarders: Buried Alive" is beyond me.  In the episode airing when I entered their living room, the sewage pipes inside the home of some middle-age couple had burst, and the filth had covered everything-- and  I mean EVERYTHING.  It looked like they had not thrown anything out in the decades they had lived there.  They had to have professionals come and assist them in removing the toxic junk and in the process, the couple living there found the dessicated corpse of their pet cat...  and all the while, dinner was going on in the living room.

The following episode of "Hoarders: Buried Alive" was not much better.  An older man was living on his property that looked like it was built on a landfill.  He obviously had a mental breakdown of sorts when his wife left him (and I didn't catch all of the background about his children, who showed up later, but I guess they had left him too), but to compensate for the heartbreak, he began compulsively piling up garbage throughout his house-- and by garbage, I mean GARBAGE!  He left rotted/rotting food, like cartons of orange juice, milk jugs, food containers, etc. lying everywhere, and piled more junk on top of it. He ate food that was three to four weeks past its expiration date-- some of it was crawling with flies. The old man made claims that some of the junk (old electronics, vehicles, tires, gardening tools, etc.) could be used at a future date, but he didn't have the wherewithal to use it.  So what would the excuse be for old containers of food that were piled up to the ceiling, I wondered?

Anyway, I am not here to talk about people who are compulsive hoarders, as pitiful as they may be.  I more concerned about compulsive observers, people who seem to enjoy such programming on their television sets. For the life of me, I cannot understand why people would want to watch others living in misery.  Perhaps it makes them feel better about their own life struggles, but I still cannot feel any sense of purpose in wasting time planted in front of the 'boob tube' letting such negativity flow into  your life.

It's rather disturbing to me that certain channels like TLC will seemingly bend over backward just to expose us to the dregs of society who will sell their story for money or their chance at 'fifteen minutes of fame'-- think "Honey Boo Boo" or "The Gypsy Sisters" show that I saw promoted last night-- or to people who could really need serious mental health treatment, such as these compulsive hoarders or the woman who was addicted to eating cat hair.  Yes, you read that right-- she ate cat hair, and licked her cat in the brief promo on the screen. The thing is, TLC probably believes that they're giving their viewers what they clamor for.  "Jon & Kate Plus 8" was a mega-popular series, as were other shows like "Little People, Big World", "17 (or 18, 19...) And Counting", "Toddlers & Tiaras" (where Honey Boo Boo came from) and now they are launching shows about "the real-life ER".  The one common theme that links all of these shows is what TLC calls "life surprises" but what that really amounts to one thing:  "we want to cater to your voyeurism".

I gave up television viewing years ago when 'reality TV' became the dominant form of programming. My reason for doing so is because I find the format utterly depressing.  For one, there is little that is truly 'real' about it (I even call it 'surreality TV') because the moment you focus a camera lens on a human subject, it is most likely that they will begin to pose. When you gather multiple subjects in a small space to document 'their world', your objectivity is lost.  The producers know that drama sells and thus the people being filmed are encouraged to produce ample amounts of it.  Even if it is not a verbal directive, by pulling people who share animosity towards each other together when they would never be in the same space together naturally, you have taken them out of their 'reality' and put them in a 'surreal' situation.  In real life, people don't always behave the way they do on camera, because the camera and crew is a stimulant of sorts.  Even if there is a hidden camera, with no visible crew, if the people know they are being filmed, they will act (out) to fulfill the image they have in their mind about how the producers expect them to behave.  This has been true for most reality TV shows ever since the genre started.

It doesn't matter if it is a group of contestants trying to outlast their competitors a la "Big Brother", "Hell's Kitchen", "The Bachelorette", "Survivor", or any of their knockoffs; it doesn't matter if it's a bunch of "Real Housewives" dishing out drama-fueled tirades against each other; it doesn't matter if it's Amish kids, Mormon wives, lobster fishermen, truck drivers, apprentices, bosses, or overweight people trying to slim down: when the camera is rolling, the story is being twisted, poked and prodded until it is no longer 'reality' and it is redesigned, re-edited, and remade, torn apart and then put back together until it is a packaged product waiting for consumption by the voyeurs who are looking for nothing more than a cheap thrill.  There is no 'reality' to be found in these shows; to me, watching them is a total waste of time, and so I usually don't.  But I find it very curious that other people do watch these shows, and religiously.  To make it even more surprising, some of these people are ones who 'don't want drama' in their lives, yet will plop down on the sofa and watch others deal with the same drama they just said they didn't want.  Well, to each their own, I guess.

A World Apart: Reflections on Being Gay in 1980

I just started reading "And the Band Played On: Politics, People and the AIDS Epidemic", the best-selling non-fiction book from 1987 that was written by Randy Shilts, a journalist from the San Francisco Chronicle.  The book chronicles the spread of HIV and AIDS and how the United States government was totally indifferent to it, as it was perceived to be solely a gay disease. I've only finished two chapters, which is a grand total of 25 pages, so right now the section I just finished reading took place in 1980 and the specter of AIDS had just begun to make its presence known.

In April 1980 I turned 18; six weeks later I graduated from high school.  I'll be honest and let you know up front that it was by the skin of my teeth that I lived to see my high school graduation; the year before, I had tried to kill myself.  You see, I had a deep, dark secret that pushed me to the edge, and I thought nobody could help me. If you haven't figured it out yet as to how these two paragraphs correlate, let me close the gap for you: I am gay, and growing up in a small town in Minnesota back in that time provided zero support for me. Leaving my home town did not appear to be an option- I was taught from a very young age that the big city was a breeding ground for all sorts of troubles, and the one or two trips to Minneapolis before graduation from high school only reinforced the image of the big city as smelly, dirty, noisy, congested and ugly, so I had no place to escape to.  But worse than that, I was taught that it was absolutely proper to abhor gays, because even God declared them an abomination, and there would never be acceptance of gay people anywhere.  So, even though I was a straight-A student who eventually graduated at the top of my class, when I was 17, I felt compelled to put an end to my suffering and blow my brains out and end it all.... but things obviously did not go according to plan.

So, in May 1980, I was looking very cautiously toward the future, which was as tenuous as a strand of a spider's web, the end of which seemed to sway in the slightest breeze.  I was still struggling with suicidal thoughts --these thoughts were the reason why I never learned how to drive a car until I was in my 30's-- I was too afraid of using the car to kill myself (and maybe others in the process.)  I had already decided to go to college-- and chose the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis simply because it was the cheapest four-year college for a Minnesota resident, and closest to home.  Don't ask me why I cared about home, because it was the one place I wanted to leave behind, and I really didn't care to ever see it again.  That is why I chose the study of Japanese as a major-- I wanted to get as far, far away from Minnesota and my dark, ugly past as I could.  (Africa was my second option-- I don't know why, but I've always been fascinated by the "Dark Continent" ever since I was a young boy in elementary school, and if I hadn't ended up studying Japanese, I swear I would've studied Swahili or some other language and ended up in Africa in some capacity.)

In the fall of 1980, my parents dropped me off at the University of Minnesota campus; unlike many other students there, I was serious about my studies, and already knew what I wanted.  My parents were poor, so I had no financial support from them.  And since I had been suicidal, I had not tried to apply for scholarships, thinking it would be just a waste of time.  With the assistance of Pell Grants, student loans, and by working as a janitor, I made it to college. It was funny how some parts of me changed overnight... for example, when I was in the dorm cafeteria, I ate many things I refused to even try when I was a young kid. Yet other parts of me took more time to change; I was still quite conservative (i.e., 'geeky') in dress and attitude about many things.  I still clung to the idea that my sexual orientation was something to be utterly ashamed of, and did not allow myself any growth while I was a college student.  In fact, there were two incidents that express just how closeted I was, and I'll discuss them in a minute.

To me, Minneapolis seemed to be a miniature gay mecca back in the 70's and 80's, much like a much smaller version of San Francisco, In the second chapter of his book "And the Band Played On" Randy Shilts describes a scene of the main characters appearing in San Francisco for the Gay Freedom Day Parade in 1980, and describes what it was like with gay men, clubs and bath houses back in the pre-AIDS days. While I did not 'partake' of any such proclivities while a student back in Minneapolis in the early 80's, I knew of a gay bar there-- The Gay 90's -- because it was situated on University Avenue in downtown Minneapolis and the bus line that took me to campus ran right next to the bar.  Remember, I didn't drive and the bus stop next to The Gay 90's was the one closest to the Greyhound bus station, so every time I went back home or back to school I had to pass in front of the gay bar. 

For the most part, though, I was oblivious to the presence of gay men while I was in college.  I can't even think of anyone I knew as gay besides me. For someone as book smart as I was, I was clueless when it came to real life. One time, as I was heading to the Greyhound station, I passed in front of The Gay 90's on the other side of the street, where two men were loitering on the sidewalk and just talking to each other.  As I passed by them, one of the men said, "Nice ass!" quite loudly. I picked up my pace and kept walking without even acknowledging the compliment.  I was more frightened that flattered, even though it was the very first time I had been approached by a gay man.  I sometimes wonder how my life would be different if I had been more receptive to the compliment. 

There was one other time I remember seeing known gay men-- it was a holiday weekend, and I had invited a couple of Japanese students to my hometown to share my mother's cooking with them. As we were heading back to the campus, we stood at the bus station next to The Gay 90's and watched as people  were coming to the bar. There was some big party going on inside-- we could hear the music and the street corner was crowded.  A gay couple-- one dressed in full leather, from his boots to his hat, and his full-figured partner dressed in high heels, chartreuse evening gown, wig and tiara, and sporting a full beard-- approached the bar and my Japanese friends started pointing at them and burst out in uncontrollable laughter. Embarrassed more by our intolerance than disgust, I suggested we walk down to the next bus stop a couple of blocks away, so we did.  That was the extent of my public gay life back in the early 1980's.

As AIDS began to ravage the gay community, and gay men were losing friends and lovers to this devastating disease, I was safely ensconced in a bubble of my own creation, in a way.  I was so deep in the closet that I knew nothing of what it really meant to be gay.  I did not meet any gay people (that I knew of), and never went into The Gay 90's like some of my classmates did. (I once took a Speech course in which we were assigned to investigate a sub-culture and give a report on what we found.  I don't remember what I did my report on, but a classmate did his report on a visit to The Gay 90's.)  You can more or less say that I was "just pretending" to be gay just as much as I was pretending to be straight.  In my mind, I was most definitely gay-- the only way I could imagine myself with a woman is if I forced myself to subjugate my desires and lie to everyone-- but I did not have sex with anyone, and didn't act on my desires at all. Instead, I focused on my work (I got a job in the Ames Library of South Asian Studies which allowed me to quit my janitor job) and on my studies and on developing my relationships with my Asian friends (a couple of whom I had a huge crush on) and it wasn't until I graduated from college and went to Japan five years later that I met and actually spoke to a gay man, but even then I was still not close to coming out.

As I continue to read "And the Band Played On", I will undoubtedly encounter sections of extreme sadness. I too, have lost friends-- not to AIDS, but to heart disease-- but I now know people who have HIV or AIDS, so the disease is closer to me now than it ever has been.  As I reflect on my experience (or lack thereof) back in the days before anyone knew of AIDS or how deadly it was, I feel a mixture of emotions-- in one way, I feel like I was protected, either by my naivete, ignorance, or self-imposed exile from the gay community, but in another way, I feel somewhat sad because I did not develop any long-time relationships with any gay people in my youth even though I was gay myself.  

After this brief reflection on my past, I am so glad that I see things with a totally different eye now--I have a lot of gay friends,  know a lot of gay couples, and I even know some men who have dressed in drag.  More than that, I am actually blessed to be married to a man I love dearly. Life has changed so much for me. No longer suicidal, I am happy where I am in my sexual orientation, and look forward to building my relationships with all people, gay or otherwise.  I am glad that I have matured enough to accept myself in all aspects, both good and bad, and no longer have to live a world apart like I did in the 1980's.

Pfft! An Exercise in Zen Meditation

Pfft!


Pfft!

It was a slight sound, like the scrape of a sandal on the concrete floor. It came from several feet behind me, a little to my right, from the area near the floor.  If someone had been walking behind me, I would've understood what caused the sounds, but as it was, there was no one standing or walking behind me; the priest with the 'kyosaku' stick was too far away, on the other side of the room.  He was the only one on his feet; the rest of us were sitting in meditation...
  
To those of you unfamiliar with the practice of Zen meditation, let me explain just a little of how it works... or, worked in this case, as this is a story from twenty years ago.  But before I begin that, let me tell you how I ended up going to a temple to meditate in the first place.

First of all, I studied Japanese Language and Literature at the University of Minnesota back in the early 80's.  I had my first encounter with Zen Buddhism in my college days; as a student of Japanese culture, Buddhist themes tended to appear quite often in the works of famous Japanese writers.  And, to my surprise, one of my classmates was the son of a Japanese priest who ran the Zen Meditation Center just off Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis, but I digress. I had been to the ZMC as a part of my coursework, and even  participated in a short meditation session then, but nothing really 'clicked' at that time.  It may have been due to my upbringing as a Methodist, and my desire to steer away from the 'cults' that I'd heard about growing up.  At any rate, I didn't develop a real interest in Buddhism until my last year in college, when I read a story written by a priest over 800 years ago as part of my "Classical Japanese" studies, and was quite moved by the beauty and philosophy of the work, but by then I had become more focused on graduating and finding something to do in my future, which included a trip to the Land of the Rising Sun.

I received a job offer during my second week in my first trip to Japan; the contract required that I live there a minimum of three years; I actually ended up staying longer (over seven years total).  While living in Japan, Buddhism became an inescapable presence; the landscape there is peppered with temples, almost to the level that churches appear on practically every street corner in Indiana. And, because of my loneliness and search for an answer to the 'meaning of life', I decided to give Zen Buddhism a try.  Interestingly enough, I quickly found out, not all temples, not even the Zen Buddhist temples, offer meditation sessions.  In fact, it was difficult to find one where I could even try on my own until I talked to a Japanese friend who introduced me to someone he knew, who then offered to take me to the temple where he meditated...

Pfft!

There it was again!! The sound was disturbing my focus!  I had become quite adept at meditating, and emptying my brain of excess thoughts that tended to stray in every direction like shooting stars. I actually enjoyed it, even if I couldn't quite wrap my legs the way I was supposed to for optimum results.  But now, with this sound appearing out of nowhere every so often, I was unable to quiet my mind.  What is that? became the domineering thought...


A group of us interested in Zen Buddhism meditation met every Friday evening in a small temple not too far from downtown Nagoya, a major manufacturing center in the central area of Japan, situated between Tokyo, the current capitol, and Kyoto, the old cultural center of Japan. The leader was an old Japanese priest who appeared to be in his seventies, or maybe older, but he was very, very lithe. I was amazed to see him put his head on the floor between his knees as his legs were stretched out before him. During the mediation session, the priest would have us pick our places around the perimeter of the room; we would sit on a cushion facing the wall, with our legs crossed in the 'Full Lotus" or "Half Lotus" position, and our backs erect, pointing toward the ceiling.  I would remove my glasses so that I could not see anything distinctly, then look at a point on the wall a few inches above the floor. The priest would light a stick of incense and the room would be quiet as we meditated.  The incense was a stopwatch of sorts; when it burned completely away, which took about twenty minutes, the first round of meditating was done.  The priest would ring a bell, and we would quietly stretch our legs, get up and slowly move around the room in a small circle for about five minutes to restore the circulation in our legs. Then, we would return to our selected spots, sit down, and the priest would light another stick of incense and we would begin our second round.  After the second round, we would pick up our cushions, place them in the storage rack, bring out some 'tables' and lay them out in rows, and sit to listen to the priest give us a lesson on some Buddhist text.  Afterwards, we would have a cup of tea and a small snack while we talked about various things. It was this priest and his demeanor, his heart and soul, that turned me on to the idea of becoming a Buddhist priest myself.  He also turned me to to Dvorak's Cello Concerto in B Minor, Op 104 as performed by Pablo Casals, but that, perhaps, is for another day...

Pfft!

OK, I had had enough!!  All these years of meditating were proving fruitless with my intense focus being interrupted by someone or something making that noise!!  I couldn't figure out why the priest didn't make any comment to the person disturbing my concentration-- after all, he sat  facing outward toward the center of the room and not toward the wall, so he had to have seen what caused the noise!  Something that loud should have been reprimanded!  And the guy with the kyosaku (the stick used to snap those falling asleep back to focus on their meditation) should have done something!

I could not let it slide any longer!  I waited until I heard it one more time, and then I turned my head... to see the ash had fallen off the tip of the stick of incense onto the bowl several inches below it. That was the 'loud noise' that had disturbed me!  It was simply the sound of ash falling... but the quietness of everything else had made it sound loud and clear to me! 

The knowledge that my ears had become so sensitive to the slightest of sounds made me surprised and thrilled at the same time.  It was the equivalent of a loud "KATSU!" shout used by priests in the past to bring that moment of clarity, the 'enlightenment' that disciples of Zen have striven to achieve for thousands of years... Now this is not to say that I am 'enlightened' and have dealt with everything under the sun so I'm better than all others; no, indeed, the pursuit still continues, but in other ways. I just wanted to share with you an experience, a moment in time... and encourage you to try to silence your wayward thoughts.  You never know what you might 'see' or 'hear'.  Maybe... just maybe you will hear that special something hidden behind the din of your internal busy-ness.

Love Supreme

Hi.

I'm going to kick off my absolutely brand-new blog with something simple.  Hopefully you will enjoy it and come back for more.

On the way home tonight I stopped at a restaurant to get what I consider a culinary delight-- tacos. I don't know what it is about tacos, but they set off something inside me that just rings all the right bells and whistles.  But I don't get just tacos... no, I spiff it up a notch and go for the taco SUPREME. Yes, that's right, add a little sour cream to the mix, and I could practically inhale them!

As I was eating my tacos (SUPREME!) I thought about the word supreme, and how it expresses the best of the best-- whatever the word 'supreme' describes must be the best of the best, the ultimate top, higher than anything else you're ever experienced.  And because my mind can go off into tangents at the drop of a hat like a madman playing word association games, Diana Ross and the Supremes just popped into my head, and then John Coltrane's "Love Supreme" came to mind, and then... then I had to think, what IS "Love Supreme"?

I don't know about you, but I have my own take on this.  Of course, I could 'preach' about the love of God, and how that is supreme, but I don't want to turn off anyone who may be non-religious, so for now I will set that aside and try to bring it down to something a little less mystical.  I know we all try to find a lover who will fill that ideal we have towards a partner, mate, spouse, or significant other. I constantly read posts from friends on various social media sites about their attempts to find 'that one' who can be the ultimate supplier of love.  But how do we know that this person brings that desired "Love Supreme"?  Is it even possible?

I say it is possible, because I believe I have found it.  Or, more precisely, it has found me.  As you may know, I have recently married my best friend, David.  Oops, wow, uh... did I just say that I am married to another man?  Yes, that's right.  I am married to another man.  And that makes me gay... If you found me through an Internet search and stumbled across this post, and you have suddenly found out that I am gay, well... I am gay, and have always been gay, and nothing will ever change that-- oh, there was a time when I wanted this to change, but I have accepted that it will not change, and I'm so much happier for having come to that point in my life where I CAN accept it, live with it, and move on.  But, I digress.

Getting back to David... We met online about five years ago.  When I first saw him, I thought he was stunningly handsome (and he still is) and felt compelled to drop him a line. I thought nothing would come of it.  I gave him a compliment and left it at that, and hoped that he might drop me a line in return.  He did. And that was the start of something that slowly built over time.

What I didn't realize until this past year is just how much David loved me.  He was 'taken', and out of my reach, so to speak. But we still kept in contact, and once in a while, David would do something special for me.  He bought me a Nook, for example, or tickets to see Earth, Wind and Fire (one of my favorite bands) with a friend.  See, David could not be with me to enjoy that special time together, but he still loved me enough to want me to enjoy the things he knew I would enjoy, and he knew that I'd enjoy it more if I saw it with someone else, so he bought two tickets.  That's just the way he is, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the 'attention.  There is one thing, however, that really showed me he loved me, one thing that showed me he possessed that "Love Supreme":  he humbled himself and cleaned up a mess I had created.  And when I found out what he had done, he did not brag about it, or lord it over me....Instead, he remained quiet and unassuming as I burst into tears.

You see, it is very rare that someone has ever cared enough for me to do things like that. I've always been the independent, self-reliable type, but when David took the time and put forth the effort-- and it wasn't easy, and it took several hours of hard work-- just for me, to give me a hand where I needed it, it was the greatest gift I had received in years. It was a moment that defined his love for me-- as some kind of transcendent, boundless, eternal love that far outstripped anything else I had ever experienced from another human being. That moment was the moment I realized just how deeply David loved me, and it was at that moment that I began to wish that David would somehow make it possible for us to be lovers in every sense of the word. And he did, and on December 24, 2012, David and I exchanged rings and officially became the cutest and luckiest gay couple in the whole U.S.  :o)

So, David T. Boyd, thank you for showing me that Love Supreme and accepting me into your life.  I promise to do my best to pay it back and pay it forward, and may we have many happy years in bliss together.

Namaste.