The Road Goes Ever Ever On

A few minutes ago, I finished reading a book I first read in school, very close to 13 years ago. Since then I had read it at least once or twice, but I have enjoyed it every time. That book is THE HOBBIT, by the brilliant J. R. R. Tolkien. For probably close to a year now I have been wanting to re-read both that and THE LORD OF THE RINGS, namely because I had not read them since becoming a medievalist, only before then, and my wife pointed out when she was reading them this past year (the first time since becoming a medievalist, herself) that there was a lot more to be gleaned from the story.

The first thing that struck me upon picking up THE HOBBIT again was the style of prose. I had forgotten how much it really is written for a younger reader. The language, while still beautiful and well composed, is simpler. The chapters, at least until near the end, are also very episodic with the author several times directly engaging with the reader concerning the adventures of Bilbo, Thorin, et al. One nice effect of this is it really frames the story as an epic, with strange situations and people that they must engage with in each episode.

More specifically medieval, I noticed this time two points where the book matched something I knew from Narnia. One is seen early on when the company is climbing into the Misty Mountains, just before they find the front doorstep of the goblins, and they see giants throwing stones down into the valley as a sort of game. This also appears in C. S. Lewis's THE SILVER CHAIR when Eustace, Jill, and Puddleglum are travelling to the North and they see giants standing on either side of a valley throwing stones at each other (or what other targets they may see) for sport. After talking with some friends, I am going to look into Geoffrey of Monmouth to see if the trope appears there, but regardless it is almost certain they each got their inspiration from the same place (be it medieval or a chat at the pub).

The other is the effect of dragon-gold on those who are near it. This is seen in Thorin when he refuses gold to aid the Men of the Lake, and it is seen in the Master when he takes off with the gold due to the curse of dragon greed. Again, it shows up in Lewis, this time in VOYAGE OF THE DAWN TREADER, again with Eustace. On Dragon Island he sees a dragon die and then falls asleep on its hoard. When he awakes, he has become a dragon, which, as the author tells us, comes of sleeping on a dragon's hoard with thinking dragonish thoughts. Again, likely a medieval trope.

I definitely enjoyed reading it through again. I found myself remembering the pictures we had to draw for each chapter and how mine were far better at the start than by the end as I felt pressed for time. (I do wonder where they are; probably in a box somewhere, like so much of my life.) And with each title I could remember very well what happened in each chapter. Still, that was part of the fun, rediscovering a well told tale.

And now I embark upon the larger journey, THE LORD OF THE RINGS.

Love Casteth Out Fear

"Love, and fear. If you would be persuasive, to yourself and to others, you must first love, and not fear."

I borrow this phrase from a dear friend's most recent post at their blog because, of the entire post and the entire series to which this particular post belongs, this one speaks to my heart.

As I have said earlier in this blog, I am currently in the midst of learning who I am. And recently I have begun to accept who that person is. The difficulty with this it requires me to accept, and even love, the person God has made me: I need to love this feminine boy, knowing that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. My gut instinct is that it would be so much easier to love me if I were someone else, that is, if I could be what we call normal and love, in someone else, this same otherness I am currently experiencing. And yet I know that to do so is prideful, so perhaps it is appropriate that I should be faced with this challenge.

A challenge is exactly what it is, and it is a challenge that I believe most of us, if not all of us, must face. We must all learn how to love ourselves. This was, before my revelation, a challenge for me. In these days after it, it is both far harder and easier. Easier because I am no longer attempting to fit myself to a model that I just do not fit. Harder because my simple model has been removed and what it has been replaced with is contrary to what many people very dear to me believe is right.

Here we return to the opening quote. One of my big fears is that my family may learn about me and reject me. More than that, I fear their disappointment, that they will feel like they failed, that they will fear for my soul (more than they already do, what with me being Catholic). Part of what moves that fear is a deeper fear that they may be right and instead of loving who I am, I should hate what is evil and love what is good. But to hate what I have been raised to call evil is to hate the person I have seen myself to be. And so I fear myself.

But at the same time, the psalmist calls me to praise the Lord, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. God can make nothing evil, and by this I know in reason that I must choose to love this feminine boy. Only when we are moved by love of God can we truly live. Only then can we be persuasive to ourselves. Until we are ourselves persuaded, we will never persuade others.

When we are moved by fear, we sink into the waves. We feel ourselves about to drown and we cannot help but believe we deserve it, because it confirms our fears. Others see us and we confirm their prejudices. However, when we are moved by love of God, we care not for the waves which crash around us, because our eyes are fixed on the Christ. We witness to His grace by knowing that He has made us and loves us, regardless of how battered and torn and ugly we appear to ourselves, and acting accordingly. We honour God by honouring those over us and by truly loving His creation which necessarily reflects His goodness.

And so, even though I may fear disappointing my family, even though I may fear that I may have misunderstood who God has made me, I know that I must look first to the love of God. I must first love God, and to do this, I must love that which He has made, including myself. When I am moved by love of God, and not by fear, then I will be persuasive to myself, and possibly even to the others whom I am currently tempted to fear.

And Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread

Dear God, some days I wonder what is wrong with me. It seems I've been bitten by the depression bug. You know, that bug which, contrary to expectations, is not, say, mosquito-sized, but more crocodile-sized. And it seizes you about the middle. And threatens to bite you in half. And worst of all, but possibly most expected, it comes without any real discernible reason. Or rather, there ARE reasons, but they are not sufficient to what I desire. Rather, they are petty, human reasons of feeling out of place and lacking purpose.

I far prefer Reason wherein I know that wherever I go I am subject to Heaven and all the earth is merely a place I see with a visitor's visa. With that mindset, I know that any displacement I feel here is merely the image and, more importantly, emphasized reality of my situation, as my true home is not earthly but heavenly. Alas, this is a gnostic approach to the human experience and one to which I am rather prone.

Part of the issue is that I lack purpose and direction here. Which is what I desired in some ways. Or rather, I desired no close date, no restrictions to my future. But in that, I also desire direction, some idea of what I will DO with my future. And at this point, I feel alone and adrift on this great sea wherein all I can do is cling to a tiny bit of drift-wood and I cannot even identify an island to swim to an even temporarily settle upon until the seas become more calm. Part of me longs to be a medievalist, but I have no direction there yet and that future, even with a direction, is uncertain. Part of me contemplates becoming a writer, but I lack the words and lack the direction even more than I lack in medieval studies and that future is equally uncertain. Part of me feels I should just study Speech-Language Pathology as that makes money and such a future would be quite certain. And part of me suspects that I am just dominated and ruled by acedia and that that priest was right that I fear suffering and will do anything to avoid it, and will thus be ruled by acedia until I can learn to accept it and see the good in suffering.

And I feel at a loss. I do not know where to turn. This battle against acedia is probably lifelong as I have been governed by it lifelong. Thus far all I know to do is learn the self-discipline that all of my education thus far has failed to teach me. And so I am reading Latin, just because I know I should be able to and that with determination and self-discipline I will bring myself to the level I should be at. It will hopefully set me on the road, but it still doesn't give me clear direction. And I really wish I knew what to do with my life and where to turn.

Seal my heart and break my pride
I've nowhere to stand and nowhere to hide
Align my heart, my body, my mind
To face what I've done and do my time.¹


1 Mumford & Sons, Dustbowl Dance.

A New Beginning?

We have arrived safely in England--that happy land of magic. And happily, for myself, for the first time since becoming self-aware, I am allowed to explore what that even means.

For a while now, especially whilst living with my family, my wife and I have joked about how my parents are probably relieved that I am neatly locked into a safe, heterosexual marriage. Well, a week or two ago, this was actually confirmed by a friend who overheard my father saying as much to someone at the wedding. I am not entirely sure how to feel about this, really. It was certainly funnier when it was speculated about but not known for sure. More significantly, it means that any designs I have to explore concepts of gender and its expression confirm what are now known fears for my parents, as opposed to merely confirming what we had until now assumed they did not actually fear. I think what I find most dismaying about this is that I want to make them proud of me. And every time I wear a skirt or do something that otherwise challenges others' perceptions of my masculinity, I am aware that I am somehow a disappointment to my parents (whether they know it or not).

And yet, I am also aware of the fact that this is not something I have created for myself: I did not choose to be gender queer, but rather discovered it and saw how it had patterned throughout my life and brought a certain order to my experiences. So it was inevitable that I should face this, and either I could hide it away and deny the wonder of my being or I could accept it and thank the Lord for His good creation.

Neither, I realise, is this the only disappointment to my parents in me: there is also my Catholicism, with which they are still not comfortable (or, at times, outright disgusted, e.g., Eucharist). But I could not avoid the directive of God and His servant, Ratio, any easier than I could continue to deny how this same God had made me. While I could live a Catholic life and let my parents see as much, it puts a strain on our relationship. How much more so with their fears (or possible certainty, although I doubt that) that their son might not be entirely, properly straight?

Now I am in a new place where there is no family; where there is nobody who knows my family; and where I can start anew without fears of it getting back to my family. Perhaps I can now begin to learn to be who I am in a new way without living in fear of hurting others by accepting my very being. And perhaps, just perhaps, when I return to Canada, I will be comfortable and confident in my being through sufficient practice at accepting this person God has made.

Moving

So I write this as I am killing time waiting to leave for the airport. This is the last night in my parents home. Ever. (At least, this is likely.) It is likely my last night living in British Columbia. I may visit again, but realistically, I must face the fact that I may be currently spending my final night living in the province I grew up in--the province I love.

It is strange considering this. This has been my home, the place where my heart has resided. Until this evening I have had a key for this house on my key ring since before I ever moved away. And now it is gone (given, appropriately, to my brother-in-law who was lacking a key). Right now, if I were not tired and on the tail end of tipsy, I would be as I was earlier: very anxious and afraid, scared to consider cutting myself off from this anchor to life and reality. And yet I'm entering into the great unknown, this thing I have long sought for. Perhaps it is only right to fear that which is good for us. Or perhaps it is this deep-set acedia within me, which despises my current place, whatever that may be. But this is where I am, and this is what I am doing. Tomorrow we will be in Toronto, and then in ten days we will be on another continent altogether. This is what we have longed for, and now, by the grace of God, we are there.

Watashiwa... dare?

Tonight I am writing without purpose. Well, that is not strictly true, but I am writing without a purpose currently clear to me.

I have just finished my first of two long work days and the penultimate of a very long work "week". Earlier today I had the good fortune to work with one of my agnostic colleagues, but also sadly one of the only people out here that I can have good, religious discussion with. That is probably my biggest sorrow of living here: while there are many religious people everywhere I look, few of them are educated in theology, let alone a more Catholic theology. And so all stimulating theological discussion that is not with my wife is with an agnostic colleague.

Living here has put me in a strange place where almost everyone I know is either familiar and comfortable with my religion but does not know my struggles with gender and sexuality, or they know these struggles but are not able to talk about my religion (either from lack of familiarity or lack of comfort). When I was in Toronto, I was blessed with friends who were both comfortable and familiar with both aspects of me (inasmuch as I had recognised the gender-aspect, anyway), and I miss this endlessly. What's more is I do not know if I will be able to have this when we move to England, or if I will again be in the company of people who can accept part of me, but not the other part.

I remember one occasion where a friend told me that she quite liked me, except she wished I could separate my religion from who I am day-to-day. And the fact that anyone could--or even would--do this surprised me. I cannot divide my religion from who I am without ceasing to be who I am. This does not mean I spend all of my time talking about God, but it does mean that my worldview is always shaped by my beliefs in and about God and His role and the role of the Church in the world. More and more I am finding that by keeping my feminine aspects hidden and suppressed, I am attempting to do exactly what my friend asked, except instead of doing it to religion, I am doing it to who God made me. And truly, to deny God's creation can only end in tragedy.

As our time here winds to an end I look forward to a brief respite wherein I will be with friends who accept and understand my struggles, and after that I enter into the unknown where I will have to find ways to allow both to be evident in who I am: neither flaunting who I am nor hiding it.

(My apologies for going on about the same things, and my future apologies for probably doing so again before overly long.)

Briefly Touching In

I've been meaning to post on this for a while, and I am not doing so at the moment, but I really love participating in Orthodox Christian vespers. Perhaps it is the prayers for the Queen, perhaps it is praying with people who understand icons, I do not know. But there is something that I find incredibly comfortable about their vespers.

Between the Denominations

This evening I went to church with my family at the Mennonite Brethren church I attended for many years. It was a very strange feeling, sitting down before the service. They have recently renovated the sanctuary and it is not entirely complete, but it now has comfier, theatre seats, and the large baptismal tank is no longer there. Further, there is no cross or any other religious imagery. In effect, it has the look of an auditorium. The other part that felt strange was the lack of liturgy. I have become so used to a liturgical setting and bad music that when presented with no liturgy and good music I feel out of place.

I think what I find strangest, though, is that in some ways I have no home in any church anymore. For years I attended this church and loved it and that was my home. When anyone told me it didn't feel like church, I didn't understand what they meant. And the I began attending Mass and later became Catholic, but on some level I still pine for the challenging sermons and the passionate music that I remember (and indeed enjoyed, this evening). And so I do not feel entirely at home there because I feel unchallenged and there is a bit less of an emphasis on challenging people. Perhaps the term I am looking for is "comfortable". Now, certainly not all priests keep to safe and comfortable approaches, but more than not, I find, do.

I wonder if I will ever find a home in a church again, or if I am meant to always feel this sense of isolation or diaspora (but if diaspora, to what?).

Lest We Forget

Tomorrow, 11 November, is probably the most important secular holiday on my calendar. And I say this as someone who generally identifies as a pacifist. And a pacifist who insists upon wearing a blood red poppy.

Some may find it odd that I feel more patriotic on Remembrance Day than I do on Canada Day, but I'm not sure how odd that sounds to a Canadian. In fact, I see far more poppies leading up to Remembrance Day than I ever see Canadian flags around Canada day. For me, this is a day when we remember the horrors of war, and that is something that a white poppy can never represent to me. It's a day when we remember all those who died, all the blood that flooded the fields and valleys of Europe, because of war. This is not an argument against the notion of a just war, but it does recall the price of all war, be it just or not. And while no war since the First and Second World Wars has seen so many killed, both military and civilian, every war is a type of those wars. Every war sees unnecessary death, sorrow, and tragedy.

And it is in memory of those who have died, necessarily or unnecessarily, that I wear a red poppy. Because I remember the price of war. And it is for them that I stand in silent memory at 11am on 11 November.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

--John McCrae, 1915

To Whom Shall I Go?

Tonight as I struggle with an insomnia empowered with guilt, I stumbled across a comment on a friend's blog concerning why this person remains with the Catholic Church, despite feeling unwelcome and seeing all the awful things done by Her of late: I have no where else to go. As it says in the Gospel, "Then Jesus said to the twelve: Will you also go away? And Simon Peter answered him: Lord, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life" (John 6.67-68).

These words strike me deeply, especially on dark nights such as this. To whom shall I go? I hurt and ache inside and I tear at my heart and bury it in ashes because I am disgusted by my inability to keep from sinning gravely. And yet, anytime something tries to suggest that the problem is the Catholic Church for putting so much emphasis upon mortal sin, my whole being cries out, "But where else can I go but to the light?" It is the light which burns me and humiliates me, because in the light I can see my ugliness. But it is only in the light that I have any hope of healing and forgiveness.

It is also in the light that I fear those things that I am told to be sinful, but which I am not convinced actually are. Can I view my confusion around gender in the light? It is easier to avoid the feeling of shame and to even feel pride in it while I keep to the shadows, not considering the light. But again, how can I keep away from that which makes me whole? And so I must face the light in this awkward and confused form and it's embarrassing and (hopefully?) humiliating. How can I hope to be forgiven my sins when I suspect that this is who I am? a creature seemingly made contrary to what is right? It would be easier if I were normal and without feminine inclination. Then all I would have to deal with is the struggle with sin that is common to all people. But to tell myself that this femininity is sinful... all I can do is try my best to serve God and hope that I am not judged too harshly for failing to reject it from my being.

And that is really what it comes down to. Despite the horror of my sin, despite the terror of not rejecting what may be a horrible sin, to whom shall I go? thou hast the words of eternal life.