Category Archives: Spirituality

Links to Spirit. Tools to live and love by.

Catharsis as Healing Release

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I have been feeling unbalanced. Though I am relaxed physically, finally letting the warm, long days buoy me gently down the stream, I’m still unbalanced at the core. I think it’s the strange evil lurking in politics, among other things for me, the usual questions of who I am, where I’m going.

My housemate is away for the summer. (he really is my housemate, a renter of a room) But he’s about as nice as a housemate can be. I miss his sweet energy. I went into his room yesterday to open a window after a storm. He left the door open when he left. His stuff is there, but the floor is empty because he packed up his air mattress. There is no rug. The late afternoon light came in through his uncovered windows and the hardwood floor glowed, amber lit from within. I felt a pang of poignancy. Ten months had passed since he moved in. Where is my life going?

I don’t want to infringe on his privacy any more than I already have. But you get the picture. He surrounds himself with the things he likes. His room gives off the same sweet energy as he.

As I left the room, I noticed a sheet of paper with an excerpt from Middlemarch by George Eliot. It seemed to be placed right where it could be noticed. He had been reading it for the third or fourth time before he left. We had discussed it’s subtlety and depth, and I said I ought to read it. Now it spoke to me.

“But I have a belief of my own, and it comforts me.”
“What is that?”
“That by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don’t quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, we are part of that divine power against evil– widening the skirts of lights and making the struggle with darkness narrower.”
“That is a beautiful mysticism– it is a –”
“Please do not call it by any name… It is my life. I have found it out, an cannot part with it. I have always been finding out my religion, since I was a little girl. I used to pray so much– now I hardly ever pray. I try not to have desires merely for myself, because they may not be good for others, and I have too much already…”
“God bless you for telling me!”
“What is yourreligion?” said Dorothea. “I mean–not what you know about religion, but the belief that helps you most?”
“To love what is good and beautiful when I see it,” said Will. “but I am a rebel: i don’t feel bound, as you do, to submit to what I don’t like.”
“But if you like what is good, that comes to the same thing.”

Something about that moment triggered a release. The amber light, the sweet, soft air, the aura of his room, the spiritual simplicity of the excerpt, like beams of pure cleansing light through my soul. I broke down and wept openly for a few minutes. Everything seemed alright. It was all OK. Much needed catharsis. Poetic moment.

Universe as God, Words as Shadows

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Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Knowing you as my father and as a friend is comforting reassurance; that I might someday turn out as cool and level headed and wise as you.
———————————————-
Can we know what God is if we don’t know what the universe is? Or can we only know God the same way we know the far reaches of the universe? By study, observation, intuition, speculation, conjecture. To me the universe is everything, stars, galaxies, nebulae, all time. But how far out does it go? Does it end somewhere? Could that universe be inside something else? Could our universe be a grain of sand on a beach with billions of other grains, each a universe? And could that beach, with glassy waves which lick your ears under a shimmering caramel moon, be waiting forever, with ageless answers, in case you are listening?

Cat's Eye Nebula

The day held me in its gaze
and swayed me lazily
to a quiet place
where the shadows receded.

Can God Lick your Ears With Ageless Answers?

The Drummer by the Sea

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A drummer sits by the sea
        listening to the hollow, holy undulation
of his mother’s clock
breathing against his face, his heart-
beating a different rhythm, a
        syncopation, a duet.
He calls to her and
she answers.
        She answers as he calls; he listens
to his own voice in the waves, her
rhythm,
his heartbeat, their duet…
the drummer hears
a whisper inside his ear,
(He took his inner voice to be
                           Hers.)
"Why," s’he said, "do I feel so lonely?
We haven’t been together in a long time.
Why, in order to be together
must we first be apart?"
S’he listened and heard and relaxed and
came together and came apart: together, apart.
S’he felt the swelling of their breath,
rising, falling, like the waves on the beach,
like the rising and falling of
their body,
the air,
the day,
the night,
and their rhythms;
soothing,
drumming beats,
of the sea, of the waves,
the waves and the foam,
and the crunchy, cool sand
and their feet titillated by it,
on it, off it, on, off.
billions of grains, ancient mountains,
crumbled empires,
fallen spires,
and the timeless sea, giver and taker,
and the dark lurkings underneath,
fear giving breath to joy.

Soul Stew

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Gospel Music. Now that’s religion with some meat on it. Not the mamby pamby nicey nicey incense sleepy music of white religion. This stirs the pot, gets the blood pumping down to your toes, gets your goose bumps popping, blows your hair back, lifts the roof right off you! I can see heaven, I can feel it, thumping in my chest, ringing in my ears, rattling my teeth. Let it all out. You’re safe. Let God hear you cry out to him in joy, in awe, in trust, cry out in passion, cry out in pain. It’s OK. You’re safe. It even got my mamby pamby white soul bouncing and smiling and clapping. There’s no choice, not any more than fighting a river you’ve been thrown in. It flows and you flow with it. Or you sit it out, numb, lost, fuming at what you’re missing.

I played a concert earlier tonight, with the Columbus Gospel Choir. Once a year we do Gospel Meets Symphony. We’ve done it the past six years. It’s always fun, but often a little amateurish. This time they had a reputable soloist, Reverend Richard Smallwood. And an experienced gospel conductor and arranger, Darin Atwater. It was well organized, high quality.

The choir was fantastic. All local folks. Unbelievable power, for 150 people. It’s all inclusive, made up of any race, and any church, all gospel. They wore all different color and pattern shawls symbolizing the melting pot of soul. Divine Diversity. (That’s also a song they sing at the end of every show.)

Some songs were done without orchestra, so I could watch. The choirs own conductor stepped up, a large, wide, bookish looking woman with a huge gap between her front teeth. Not glamorous. And she would raise her arms in a commanding gesture, hands out stretched. She had your attention. Even I would sit up. Her face took over your concentration, saying “Go with me.” She conducted with huge, powerful swings and jabs and gesticulations, in exact time with the words and song. She knew every rhythm, every word, every breath of the songs. She was in complete control. No questions. (I’m glad I’m not her husband.) But it was a joyous spirit that moved her, so she was intoxicating to watch.

Even they were engaging to watch, with arching, meaningful motions in their whole body, head, arms and hands, signing and emoting the music silently. Someone hearing impaired would certainly feel the thumping air, see the fervent bodies, rise with that spirit.

There were several good soloists chosen from the choir. Even a white girl, who roused the crowd with her fervor. But the main attraction was Richard Smallwood, a big time gospel circuit singer. He worked the crowd to a tizzy, turned them on, dangled them by his strings. At one point, at the end of a song, the choir and audience went nuts. They wouldn’t stop clapping and stomping in a fantastically fast rhythm, alternating clapping off beats and stomping. And the drummer egged them on when they started to flag. He’d wind them back up like a toy doll. The building shook. The mood had a force of it’s own, inevitable. This went on for 10 minutes. I sat right in front of the choir. I turned around to watch them from my seat in the orchestra, and they were enraptured, gyrating, pulsing, like a huge pot of bubbling stew, rupturing forth spirit like steam. Joyous Steam.

It’s going to be hard to go back to a white meat, cold cut, bread and butter life tomorrow.

Flat Sex

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I’ve never been a big fan of pornography. Ok, Ok, yes, I’ve used it plenty, especially when I was squished in the closet, and when I first came out. Oh, those sweet days of blind lust. Like, yesterday, for example. But it always left me wanting, kind of empty. Fantasizing about a real guy, now that’s fun. Maybe it will lead to something. Maybe hot, passionate sex, or a peak up a pant leg. I’ve thought about it a lot. (porno and pant legs) And I’ve seen changes in myself. Porno hollows my self-esteem by falsely building it up. Does that make sense? Bait and switch. In a vicious cycle.

I admit submitting to the Sirens call of porno. After I use pornography for my pleasure, I feel more lonely. If I stop to think (that is after mindlessly "enjoying" it) I realize I’ve been duped. That dream, that imaginary interaction, that fantasy depletes me psychologically. Maybe it’s because there’s not a hope in heaven of really meeting that guy. Or even really wanting to. It seems to tell me I’m nothing without them to boost myself to pleasure. In a way, I disappear during the fantasy. I mean the real me, the one with imperfections, needs, limitations. What replaces me is a flat, unreal, featureless creation to match the image in the smut.
Sure, it serves the purpose. But what else does it do?

I also get frustrated that these images are calling to me, yet not really there. I want the touch; of rough hands, of smooth butt, of fur rubbing me; the smells; faint cologne mixed with sweat, mild BO, feet; the close ups; of everything!; the detailed exploration;of everything!; the warmth, the vibration, the friction. Sex is a unique flowering of all those perceptions and interactions. Pornography and sex are not the same. Related, yes. Connected, yes, especially in gay culture. But sex, even if impersonal, has some depth. While, pornography, like a really good drug, takes you far away from reality. These packaged images mock me. Keep your distance. Window shopping only. Look but don’t touch. I start to believe that’s the way it should be; that’s all I deserve. It wakes me up. Dignity.

When at a bar with friends, one of my favorite things to do is people watch. Is that different from porno? After all, these are real people, in the flesh, not acting. And yes, I look at the beautiful one (or ten). I usually pick him out quickly. I watch his gestures, the nape of his neck, the way he stands, the way he fills his jeans, the way he laughs, the way his legs flex when walking, the shape of his hands and fingers as they bring a glass to his lips, the spark in his eyes. But even here, seeing real people, I basically disappear. It’s more real than porno, but still, the pleasure is not about me. It’s me enjoying watching them enjoying themselves. They are not in my world. You’re probably thinking, "This guy thinks too much." Yup, that’s what I do. My specialty.

So what do I really want? Do I enjoy sex? Hell, yes! But the connection with anther person is what I’m really after. Sex is a wonderful byproduct, but not the goal. If I get naked with a sexy man, I might go through the motions, and perhaps get off, but it’s still a robot running me. However, if I am really comfortable, I could hang around naked with a sexy man and not really have sex. Just play, tease, talk, laugh. You might just call this "dating". But that’s different again. No, sex is not dating. But a brief, poetic moment of sharing mutual pleasure is high on my list. It’s self affirming and sharing.

When I was in Budapest one summer I went to the Turkish baths. These places are ancient structures built by the Ottoman Empire during their reign in Hungary. And they have seen countless couplings between men. This one had a huge, windowed dome. Piercing shafts of light sliced through languid humidity down to enormous, round, wading pools where men lounged in sulfurey smelling mineral water.

There was a young man whom I watched for awhile; thin, very cute, pouty, wearing a modest, loose bathing suit. He seemed to know people, but floated free. He came up to me at closing and asked if I wanted him to go home with me. (Yes, he was for hire.) Though I was flattered and interested, I was also wary. He might be a thug. I put him off a few days. That increased the desire. And somehow also increased the comfort. We spoke on the phone several times before he came over. We spent the better part of the night playing, being silly and adolescent, eating pizza, napping. Sex was all that, but orgasm was only a small part. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to say. It’s more about the pleasure of someones company and connection than orgasm. Perhaps you think that’s just expensive pornography. Yes, but I’ll never forget that specific man and that night.

All of the above has been affected by pornography. Men are hard wired to want perfection, whether it’s physical beauty or raw power or perhaps, like me, a certain level of playful comfort. Porno seems to feed all that. One is encouraged to buy the fantasy, hire the professional advice on desires, pay for the unattainably perfect dream partner, cater to every whim. And this is all fine with me. I’m not complaining. Just thinking. I just like to think about how it has changed me. And whether I’ve lost some of who I am to all that packaging, lost something subtle, personal and unique.

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