"It Gets Better". My story of bullying and its lessons

Can you imagine this kid being told he was an ugly half breed, a monkey in a zoo, a queer, laughed at and mocked daily?. There he is smiling at the camera. He is kind of sweet?. This kid was already aware of hate very early in life. It was directed at him and he learned to accept it. He did not know why he was its target, only that his existence inspired it.That kid is me.

I have been following the "It Gets Better" campaign and read of the tragic suicides of young gay teens unable to find hope in life as result of the bullying they suffered. I was watching 'Downton Abbey' episode 3, Season 1 and the cripple Mr.Bates says to The Housekeeper, " I promise I will never again try to 'kill' myself. I will spend my life happily as the butt of other peoples jokes and I will never mind."

That is what I said to myself as a child. I will learn to embrace being mocked, being told am nothing and being a joke. Does it kill your self worth? yes. If you environment tells you enough times you are nothing it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy. A child has no other perspective from which to argue otherwise. That requires time and experience.

I want to make this clear, I do not write this as a victim. I can look back and see the lessons this taught me. An iron will and backbone was well earned and I have it. 

The Housekeeper replies to Mr.Bates "We all carry scars Mr Bates inside and out .You are no different to the rest of us, remember that." And we do, you might not have been bullied at school, but something in life shattered your spirit. It is how we overcome that and remain open loving souls as result of it. I am no mans victim. No man has that power. It is always your choice to hand that over to another. And, I never have, or will.

I liken my experience of bullying to a lab animal that is electrified every time it repeats a behavior. Being bullied taught me never to reach out to people for love or affection, or to be accepted. I learned to do that from a great distance. 

My parents are amazingly loving and understanding spirits. I think it was hard for mother to acknowledge this was happening to her child. I became very withdrawn and hid under blankets drawing stories to myself. I loved tales of unicorns, 'Black Beauty' [a story about a horses trials and tribulations] and Hans Christian Anderson's 'The Little Mermaid' was a favorite. I think I identified with the mermaids plight. I connected to people through drawings, but not directly. The risk of pain was too great and I had to survive and find a place of joy as a child. I found it on a pin head. I thank God I was blessed with a creative imaginative gift.


I went to George Eliot Primary School in St John's Wood. At school it is hard to be close friends with an unpopular person.Those who try become targets. I know some people liked me at that time now, only that being at my side would put them in the line of fire. I accept that. A couple of them found me on Facebook. I was friendly with some girls, but they had their own groups to which as a boy I was not really a member. The boys were repulsed by me. I liked horses and was artistic, a sensitive type, which inevitably led to the fagot comments. I had no idea about being gay consciously at that time. And, yes,  just like those teen movies no one sat next to me on the school bus.


At some point it was thought best I go to Anna Freud Clinic to discuss my hiding under towels drawing, my obsession with mermaids and long hair. My mother had long waist length strawberry blond  hair. When she left me to go two work I drew her through out the day to remain close to her in spirit. Lonely kids do that.They make up a reality that is a happy balance for the one they live in.

My real escape from school was the cottage in Sussex. My parents have since retired there. We left London every school holiday. I was excited to get on the train at Victoria Station for Chichester. I would walk through the fields and beaches with my sister, dreaming of horses, mermaids and anything else that took our fancy. I felt free and unobserved. I felt very threatened if looked at. I never looked at someone as I could not handle the scornful looks that returned my gaze. I looked down. Do not forget that my parents interracial marriage produced its own source of public scrutiny. It was not as if they were spared that brand of prejudice. I felt safe with just my sister alone in the fields. I loved the ocean and imagined mermaids talking to me as I played by the shore.


I think the final blow came at the end of primary school. I would go on to Hampstead Comprehensive school. A week trip to the Isle of White was the traditional holiday to mark this transition. The whole school year would go. There was excitement as it was our first time traveling without family. I got into the spirit of the thing.That was not good for me to do as I was not a welcome part of the show in the first place. My experience about having expectations of others was to be hurt by them. I learned early to avoid having any. But, "illusions are by their nature sweet"(Marquise de Meurteuil from 'Dangerous Liaisons').


We arrived at the hotel and the teachers asked everyone to pick friends to share rooms. There I stood in the big lobby all expectations and sharing the excitement in the full glare of all being the one no one wanted to have share their room. I could not hide fro this public shaming. I had to own it right then and there. My heart burned so badly in my chest I can feel it as I write.The humiliation was complete. 

Let us be honest here for a moment, do any of you really want to remember being that kid?, if you were that kid?. There is a shame about it we run from in later life.We fear becoming that person again. Many gay people do just that. I decided to embrace that kid without shame and love him. That is why am writing this now.

So, I went to my room. A little room, a narrow bed, a desk, and a window. I heard the other kids laughing and planning night feast to which I would not be invited. I was never invited to parties anyway. I cried so hard that night. There was nothing left. I was empty.


I knew I had to go to down to the dining room for dinner. I stood up. I looked in the mirror and wiped away the tears. I was very aware of that alone feeling. I took a deep breath and said to myself that I was not going to show them my pain. I defiantly froze my heart,  fixed a firm smile on my face, I was resolute , I opened to door and went to dinner. I was ten and in that moment I created a public persona to shield the more sensitive kid inside. I kept it.


It is called survival. It made me strong. The idea of killing myself never really happened. I had little escapes from the over bearing pain public rejection creates. I got lost in art. The one thing I remember saying to myself was "there must be something special about me for all the negative attention I receive". I believed there was good in me, that no one paid any attention to. I was in the wrong package.

As a teenager I came to understand that I was not what people wanted to date, or be in
love with. It was spelled out to me by my peers that no one woke up saying they desired a freckled face mixed race gay guy who paints. I was told I should accept that all I could be to anyone was a wonderful friend. To assume I should have more would be laughable. Imagine that movie 'Carrie', if you know that movie, t sounds horrific but this is pretty much how I felt. So, I never dated, nor was ever  asked. I could never ask anyone out after being told this as the rejection would be too much. Did I want to die? yeah, sure.To be told all this was pretty soul destroying. Only that I wanted to kill the pain not my self. Yet, I never resorted to drugs, to alcohol, I never did anything to destroy me. Deep down I had a strength I did not yet own.

Years later, while living in Miami, I was walking out of the water in white bathing trunks and guy called Joe Lupo said," you look like an angel, you are beautiful". I turned around to see who he was talking to. To my surprise it was me. I had left Britain to seek a sense of home that I never felt there. It was the first time anyone had said anything that spontaneous and quite so beautiful.And, yes he is a Facebook friend seventeen years later. It was in Miami that the 'ice' over my heart began slowly to thaw.


I came into the world an open soul who loves people.That soul encountered their hate, prejudices, snobbery and I forgave them all. I would never give them power. I refused to fit in and suffered the consequences. I am as familiar with being alone as a hermit.This was then my foundation in childhood. I have wandered around the globe and lived in various countries and cities. None of them is home. I am my home. That is what bullying did. It caused me to rely on my own strength and not on others. It forced me to seek something deeper then human connections. It led to Faith, not in the traditional sense as defined by Christianity, but in broader more abstract concept of a souls journey.

A question that bullying caused me to ask is "Can I be loved?". I know am loved by my family. I feel surrounded by a love in the general sense. But, the damage bullying did was to leave  me very uncertain of this. I learned not to have expectations of being loved by one. I seek it. I fear it, and I still hear those voices in blue moments saying "no one will ever want you" to this day. It is hard to be vulnerable. But, it makes us human. This doubt is not unique either. It is hard to show weakness. But it is its also a strength, What helped me be the person I am today was the love and acceptance of my parents. That God gave me a strong heart, even if no one individual ever wants it, to love and forgive.


I love this line from 'The Color Purple'. You do not have to a be woman, black, or even ugly to understand this message because it speaks to our humanity. It is a rejection of a lifetime of negative images we carry around about ourselves given to us by either family, ex lovers, and society.

"I'm poor, black; I may even be ugly. But dear God! I'm here! I'm here!"


I hope you are

Peace.

The Brief Encounter- The Amalfi Coast, The Hunchback and I...

Am I wrong to assume there is a transition moment in our lives when you do not feel your life. You loose your connection to it. It seems like a big void. It can happen between childhood and becoming an adult. The roles played out in childhood are redundant and the who am I questions arrive. Then again, perhaps you never went through this tumultuous moment. I did, since am prone to introspection and analyzing everything.

As a student I spent a great deal of time wondering around Italy soul searching. There was a hunger for answers to questions about life, but I did not know the questions to ask of it. That alone created its own sense of displacement. I felt like a ghost visiting my life. I felt like a stranger in my own country. I did not feel a connection to anything that felt authentic and true to who I was inside. I was empy.

The second year had ended at Oxford and the long Summer lay ahead. Travel plans were made for Italy and I went with two friends. We ceased to be friends by the time our third year began. It happens.

So, there we were in the town in the picture above, sitting in the piazza drinking coffee. I had a feeling of anxiety, drinking cappucino and feeling this spiritual emptiness. I was irritated by my friends company because I needed space to think. The world itself is transient and that bothered me at that time. I wanted to know what stuck, what remained. At twenty the paradox of permanence and transcience was a fascination. A typical student preoccupation no doubt. Its was not the era of philoshopical ponderings. It was 1988 after all and Thatcher and Reagan were selling the "get rich now or die trying" mantra. I was obiously not paying attention.

It was 6pm, the sun was setting. I walked into the local church. It was dim, and candle flames quivered in the soft breeze as I opened the door. I closed it silently behind me. There were small alters on either side of the chapel to individual Saints before which candle offering glimmered. The Madonna looked down upon us all from the main alter. I walked around quietly. I studied the Saints, the Madonna and the soft glowing light of the candles. It was beautiful and the silence had a presence. I sat down and felt numb. I did not know what I was looking for sitting there, but I was looking neverthless.

The door opened and a hunchback limped in. He was small, a bit over weight and aged. Graying hair hung over a wrinkled saggy face. He was not beautiful, but his eyes gleamed with pure joy as he beheld the Madonna. I remember they were a blue and clear. He dipped has hands in the holy water   genuflected awkwardly and made the sign of cross.

I watched  him walk slowly toward the Madonna looking up at her with profound reverence. Tears of joy filled his eyes as he drew closer to her. He had such Faith and such love in his expression. He seemed so present in her sight. He belonged there. It seemed he felt his life. He had everything I did not have and wanted. He was not empty.  He belonged. His Faith bound him to something intangible, to something greater then himself.

It is ironic looking back now making all these assumptions about him, since I never spoke to him. I would never know what he felt. I realize he was a reflection of everything I wanted. I recognized it in his being, but would never know if he in fact possessed it. I think he did. His beauty shone bright and how could I felt humbled in his presence if he had not?. That is not a question I can answer, so I will refrain from doing so now.

I could never possess what he showed me in silence. I had to make my own journey to possess that which I sought. But, he was a sign in the road and he steered me toward that 'home' I did not yet own. I will never forget that unknown beautiful hunchback and he will never know me.

Peace

The Brief Encounter... on the topic of love....

Today is an odd day.That introspective malaise that falls on us at random moments should be embraced.The blues that follow are transitory, but it affords time to reflect and take stock of one's life

So, after two cups of coffee this morning I looked back at my twenty first birthday celebration. I remember that I did not want a big party. The notion of being drunk equating to having a good night never happened to me. I still don't relate to that concept. I thought being conscious of what was making me happy infinitely preferable to oblivion.

I did not want actual presents. But, I did want to wander around Italy alone. Experience was the gift I desired, not a thing. A life memory. That also never changed. My parents were very generous and gave me that gift. A month in April, in Italy, was mine.

I went to Italy and stayed with a friends from Oxfords grandmother in Montepulciano, near Sienna in Southern Italy. Her name was Nieves Matthews. She lived in a stone farmhouse, with wooden doors and shutters. It was set in the heart of a valley. A dry stream ran through it with a bridge over it.

On the morning of my birthday I got on the train to go Assisi. I wanted to visit the Basilica of San Francesco D'Asissi. It is perched on top of a mountain over looking the medieval village that surrounds it. It was built between 1228-1257. I wanted to see Giotto's fresco cycle. I fell in love with his depiction of 'St.Francis feeding the Birds'. The delicate texture of the paint treatment was sensitive and poetic in reality. This image like a person should be experienced in real life. It was created with much love and I felt that on leaving the Basilica that afternoon.

I bought an ice cream and looked out across the valley below and toward the hill side towns opposite. I sent out this wish to life: that I would one day work creatively in Italy and live in New York. I let go of how that would happen, but that it would. Twelve years later I would be on the opposite side of this valley looking back at Assisi standing on the battlements of an old fortress with a cup of coffee, it was morning and I met that wish I made at twenty one. I was indeed living in New York and had just finished work of my first pret a porter collection. That gift would come later. There was another that Nieves gave me on my birthday that remains today.

That evening Nieves took me to the old Pizzeria in the village. We had red wine and talked about life. She had a tan wizened face, steal gray hair tied in a bun. An intellectual woman with razor sharp eyes that pierced you. She looked at me and suggested that in the morning we go for walk before I left for Rome that afternoon.

It was a sunny late morning and the sky was a deep blue. Big white clouds meandered by. We stood on that bridge looking down on the stream that did not exist. Nieves turned to face me, she had a red tapestry shawl around her shoulders, loose strands of gray hair blowing in the breeze.The sun was high above us.

"It is your birthday. This is my gift you Julius. In life you will learn what real love is.You must open your heart to it. And you must let it go. Look at this bridge, the land, the mountains surrounding us, the big sky above , open your heart to it all. Embrace it all and bring it back to your heart within. Then let it go. To let go of someone, so they can be free to be who they are meant to be in life, on the path of their choosing, is a great lesson and a great gift. To let go in forgiveness, if hurt, is important. If that which you let go of returns of its own volition, it is meant to be yours. If not set it free with peace and love. That is real love."

This would prove to be hard lesson that would bear fruit later in life, only now do I fully understand what Nieves meant. I am single. There is no one who is in love with me. There is love around me and within me. I love. We are human. These are gifts that remain and am thankful to my parents for giving me the opportunity that allowed these gifts to manifest themselves during that month many years ago.

Peace

'Being Julia' and a cup of coffee....

I was thirty seven years old and living in New York. It was one of those movie days, a wet gray late afternoon in the city. I walked to Union square from Chelsea. I lived on fifteenth street, between seventh and eight avenues. I was looking forward to seeing the movie 'Being Julia", with Annette Bening. It was based on the novel 'Theater', by W.Somerset Maugham.

My whole being was electrified by it. Why?, because I wanted her expression at the end of the movie to be mine for my fortieth birthday. That was a look of quiet self acceptance that  embraced of the past and present in peace. To sit alone being your authentic self and be in perfect peace is, to me, the sole goal in life. Nothing will ever impress me but that quality in another person- nothing ever has. But, I wanted it for my self. That is what I recognized in that look in the last scene. I had three years. I knew I better get honest with my self and unpack the stories in my script that comprised the life I had lived to date.

You should see the movie. I do not want to give a synopsis. However, Julia is an actress who has learned to play the roles others had assigned her. She played them well. But, time and age made her question the validity of all those roles. Her life inevitably lost its foundation. She lost her way in life and scrambled without direction, but sort distractions instead. Those voices in her head of those ghosts that wrote her script faded and she was left stranded.

A beautiful metaphorical image runs subtly through the movie. She is always offered champagne, but she wants beer and potatoes. The world wants her to be champagne, and she sparkles and bubbles effortlessly in reply to her audience. But, in her heart she is more simple. At the end of the movie she orders that beer and drinks it. Her journey is one of a break down of self and a reclamation of her power. She takes the reins of the script of her life and reclaims the stage upon which she has built her career.

In William Shakespeare's play "As You Like It" these famous lines were written:
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages."

The stage is a metaphor for our lives and we, like Julia. play out roles given to us by parents, school, friends, social class, work, society and so on. Like actors we perform those roles with varying degrees of success. We feel creative, like masters of the stage and we are applauded for our performance.We can become dependent on that applause. There is some satisfaction in that , even fulfillment. But, true creativity comes from the author of that script, not the players. The author has the power. I wanted to be the author of my own script, not perform in someone else's play. That is what I saw in Julia. That is what I saw in that film.

I have mentioned the nuns at All Saints Convent in my Brief Encounter series.The nunnery was a hospice. I read case histories of those that had died. One such story was of a Polish man who was asked a very simple question.
" What was it do you think you were looking for in life, ultimately?", the interviewer asked.
"All I ever wanted was for someone to look at me as though they understood me,"he replied. He died two days later. It did not seem like he ever got that wish. It took him his entire life to figure out what it was he was looking for. His answer shocked me for its simplicity. It was a humble request from life and that moved me deeply. It is that simple, as it was profound. I never forgot it.

The beer in 'Being Julia' is a metaphor for simplicity. Champagne implies wealth, glamor, beauty, and worldly success.Yet, none of that matters to me, it never did or will.

I watched Julia's triumphant stage performance as she conquered her demons. Her vitality came from becoming the author of her life. You can feel that energy in another person. That is a magnetic energy to me, because I admire it. One is not a follower. One is not a leader. One is one self. That is all.

Julia sits "quiet, quiet alone" and drinks her beer.  Her enigmatic smile is tinged with irony, humor, wistful sadness and an awareness of the tragi-comedy that is life. It was beautiful moment and film ended.

How to reclaim that pen from the authors of my life?. I thought about it for three years. I started with the what would make me happy?. If Julia had her beer then what did I want?. I hate beer, so that was not going to work. That realization happened by accident. But, I do not believe in accidents. I believe everything has a purpose and lesson for our higher good.

My business partner was in Milan and she asked me what I wanted her to bring back to New York as a gift for me. I thought about and asked for a bag coffee.
"Is that all?. It is so cheap I could get you anything", she said.
"But, coffee makes me feel rich. I feel good knowing its there in the kitchen cabinet. I feel happy knowing I wake up to a good cup of coffee. It makes me happy. It is as simple as that", I replied.

And there was my answer. It was not beer, it was coffee. It is symbolic of the simple things of life that are beautiful. The simplest thing is to be your self.That is also the hardest thing. I do not want much other then that in my life. If I am loved for it, that is a gift. If I am not, then I was not meant to be loved. I take only my self to my grave.

Everything is fleeting. I remember that Polish patient who died expressing what he finally realized he wanted. I knew as a student that I wanted to know a lot sooner then my last two days what was my bliss. But, the coffee is symbol of what I found in my heart. It is both simple and complex because it has always been right under our noses. What we are told we should want often blinds to what we  truly want.

My fortieth birthday arrived. I went to Gusto on Greenwich ave and Perry st. A great Italian restaurant with great coffee. Friends had said I had to do a dinner for this milestone. It was wonderful. But, at the end of the dinner the waiter brought me that cup of coffee and I drank it and smiled.

peace.

The Brief Encounter...a series.

It is 3.47am. I could not sleep. There were no bad dreams, rather I just woke up alert. The coffee is being made as I type. My eyes are not at all bleary. They are clear.

This image is the chapel of Worcester College, Oxford University. This was my place of prayer and spiritual growth for three years while a student. Every Sunday morning and evensong I would attend services. The evening service was formal. Undergraduates were required to wear subfusc.That is the University uniform. Its is comprised of: a white shirt, black bow tie,  dark suit , gown and black shoes.The choir would sing beautifully, since we had choral scholars , and the lights were low, The chapel glowed. It was High Church.

It was built in 1720. Every surface is covered with decoration using mosaic, fresco, stained glass, wood and alabaster sculpture. Each element of design is part of theological program celebrating the mighty works of God in nature and in human history.

I was christened and baptized in this chapel. I was nineteen. My spiritual journey began at age fourteen by accident. I will talk about that at some point. But, that journey led me to this 18th century chapel.

Evensong began every Sunday at 6pm. It was followed by sherry in the Chaplains rooms (his office) and one was meant to drink dry sherry. That was the 'right' thing to do. Sweet sherry was seen as very working class. However, I hate dry sherry. I hate sherry. We would then descend the wooden stairs and head to the 18 century dining hall. It had pale blue walls, white stucco columns and and long wooden tables.The don's table was at the end of the room. It was raised over looking the students beneath. Servants in white livery served food and wine. Think of Harry Potter, but without the floating candles and the universe for a ceiling, and you got the picture..

As the weeks passed in my first year , which was 1986, I noticed a little nun in blue habit sitting in a corner of the chapel each evensong. She always reminded me of a naughty white mouse. Her sparkling pale blues looked impishly around the room. She wore glasses with clear frames, so her eyes were not veiled. After a while, we made eye contact. Her eyes twinkled and she grinned. I honestly think her nose twitched. I think she was about seventy five yeas old.We then began to nod in recognition of each other.Then, one evening after chapel we were introduced at the Chaplains pre-dinner sherry.

"Hello there, yes, my name is Sister Alice, very nice to meet you", she said. She was a tiny thing with pointed features. Her eyes sparkled. What radiated them was her inquisitive nature and keen intellect. She was alive and present, not dead.

"I am Julius, I have seen you often, nice to meet you", I replied. I was intrigued.
"Where did you come from?", I asked.
"Oh, I am a nun at All Saints Convent, yes, there it is.That is where I live. Been there for years, oh yes", she chuckled.
"I've to come to this chapel every Sunday. I have been doing that for years to", she said with an impish giggle .
"I see, how interesting,' I replied.
"Well, perhaps it isn't", she said laughing. It was an awkward start and before long she left for the convent and I went into formal hall.

Time passed and many sherries later I asked Sister Alice for tea in my rooms. I lived in 14th century cottages. I had a drawing room and bedroom with gabled windows. A cleaner called Madge came every morning to make the bed and clean the room. She always came too early.

Sister Alice arrived at the appointed time. We talked about this and that. I was dealing with faith and my homosexuality. I was still a virgin at college as you might recall if you read my coming out blog.
I asked her what she thought of homosexuality.

"Oh, that", she chuckled. "Well, I don't know what all the fuss is about really. Faith is not about laws it is about a relationship with God.Religion as an institution has to define itself by laws in order to have structure. But, nothing should get in the way with your relationship with God. That would be the ultimate sin. If your conscience is clear about it, then it is clear with God. I know I should not say it, but it is also a truth. No man should ever intercede on that relationship. Anyway. I don't know why people go on about it. There are worse things in life like pride, yes, and those people, all most of all them suffer from pride. It is far greater sin then any other, yes. deadly. Ironic, yes", She chuckled and drank some tea.

I was struck by her stance on the topic and noticed she had been concentrating on a large drawing of St Paul's Cathedral I had made from conte. It hung above my oak bookcase. It depicted the aisle leading to the apse. It had black silhouettes of anonymous figures sitting pews facing the alter. Light poured through the windows like sun rays in the shrouded light.

Sister Alice was silent. She drank her tea. She studied that drawing for a while in silence. I boiled more hot water. I sat down and asked what she thought of this piece.
"Oh, I love it. It beautiful. I would love that piece. Very moving and still, " she said.

Two years passed and my time at Oxford was over. I was packing up my rooms. I was rolling up that drawing and  remembered my tea with Sister Alice. I told my mother the story of our tea two years earlier, and she had loved this drawing.
"You should give it to her, we can drive to the convent this afternoon on our way back to London", Mother said.
"Yes, that feels right. You are right. She seemed very touched by it", I said.

We  arrived at the Convent and luckily Sister Alice was there. I handed her the drawing.
"Oh, thank you , are you sure?", she said, her eyes twinkled with pleasure..
"Yes I said, you seemed to be moved by it. That is what art should do. I think you should have it",I replied
"Thank you, I will treasure this forever. I love it. Very kind, yes , very kind", she chuckled, her pale blue eyes sparkled. They were bright and clear.

I returned to Oxford many years later. For some reason I thought about Sister Alice and went to see how she was. I knew she would have to be eighty five by then. But, I was intrigued. Perhaps the drawing had created a bond between us. It marked my spiritual journey and that had passed to her in that work. The Reverend Mother came  to meet me in the lobby.
"Oh Sister Alice?, ah, she died a few years ago", she said.
"Am sorry to hear that. I was hoping to see her. What did she ever do with the drawing of St Paul's Cathedral I gave her", I asked.
"Oh you made it?.She loved it. She had it in her room for years. It was one of the few possessions she had. It was beautiful. It was also the only thing she took with her when she died", she said.
"What do you mean?", I inquired.
"Sister Alice was buried with it.She asked that it be buried with it in her arms", she said looking deeply into my eyes.

I was silent. I have no words then or now to describe the impact that made. I will not attempt it now.

You never now how you touch people in life. But, if we are blessed, we might.

peace.

The Brief Encounter......

No, am not referring to the movie classic, nor any anything to do with sexual escapades of the anonymous variety. I am talking about those strangers who cross our paths. Those rare souls who make in indelible difference to our lives. They seldom know that, since we never see them again. I have had such people in my life. I thought I would honor them in my new blog. So, you should consider this the beginning of The Brief Encounter Series.

It was the Summer of 1987. I was down from Oxford University, the three month Summer vacation loomed long ahead of me. I had a fallen in love for the first time with an American Guy. I did not know it until he left. He returned to New York once he completed his year abroad at my college, Worcester. But, he is not the focus of this tale. He certainly motivated me to find employment to save money to pay for that flight to New York. That would have been two firsts for me that Summer. I felt alive. I was young. I felt love. It was new, and there it was sitting there in my heart.

I never made it to New York that Summer. Life is like that. You plan , but something changes your course in life. However, in eager haste to secure enough funds to pay for this epic journey I needed work.We always spent school holidays in Sussex, England, away from London where I also lived. I was grew up in London and Sussex. I love the sea and that passion was born walking along the stony beaches of Southern England my entire childhood.

There was a private old peoples home in Church Norton. Norton Priory was the name of the home. Beyond its garden walls lay the sea. The image posted above is Norton beach. The beach is white with well sea worn stones. The big gray skies and gray blue ocean is vast.There is an estuary behind you if you stood facing this seascape. It is a haven for all brands of wild life.The sun sets behind tall Pine trees. The marsh reeds sway softly in the sea breeze in the golden half light of dusk.

I spent that summer working in Norton Priory. I walked there across corn fields, down the tree lined paths toward the driveway leading to this old mansion. I put on my apron and took the morning coffees to the residents. My job was to chat and entertain. I think chatting was therapy and I was the therapy.

One of the residents was a ballerina. I no longer remember her name. I will call her The Ballerina. Every morning I would find her sitting at the end of her bed smoking a cigarette. She wore a heavey plaid limber jack shirt. I think it was red. And, soft khaki pants. Heavy black rimmed glasses framed her sallow face. Her hair was white and tousled. A glass of good whiskey was always in her hand.

She was looking out of the window one morning. The sun was bright out side.  She  turned toward me. She was a silhouette against the light. She studied me. I smiled. I met her gaze without blinking.There we were facing each other in silence.

"You are young, she said, croaking the words out in that voice only booze and smoking could create.

'You have your whole life ahead of you', she said.She said nothing.Took a long draw on her cigarette. Then took a long sip of Whiskey and coughed.

"I have some advice for you. You can see am an old woman. I lived my life. I lived the life I wanted. I was a ballerina. That was my life. I loved it.The key is I LIVED that life.The one I wanted. I did it. So, here I am a drunk. I know it. I look out at the window onto the gardens, beyond that lies the ocean.I will never leave this room , nor see that ocean. I will die here. I am okay with that. Do you understand that?. I am okay with that. Why?, because I got to be me in my life. I have no regrets. When I retired from the ballet my life was over. It was done. But, I lived!", she said. She was pensive for a moment.Took another long drink, drew on her cigarette. Blew out the smoke. She looked at me steadily.

"You are young.You must live YOUR life. It does not matter what anyone has to say about it. It is yours and one day you will be where I am. So, will those who pass comment on others lives. None of it matters. The only thing that counts is that you just live Your life, no one elses , yours. You will be okay. I am", she said. The room fell silent. She drew on her cigarette.

"Okay, will do", I said.

She turned and looked out her of her bedroom window onto the Gardens. Beyond which lay the ocean that she would never see.

peace.

When in Rome....a coming out story.....mine!

Many, many, moons and coffees ago in London, long before America was on my horizon, I was that teen who knew he was gay, but had not come out to Mum or Dad.

My parents had gay friends and fought for gay rights from the 1960's. Mum believed that love was blind and all had the right to love. Her sole criteria was simply that you respect those you love and they respect you.

I sit here at my desk looking over my back yard. I look back at my parents with a deep love and an enormous sense of gratitude for them. That grows with each passing year as age, with wisdom, make the gift of them more apparent. The blessing is I tell them , they know this. A day should not end without acknowledging the good a person has been in your life.

Kitchen tables are essential to family life. My coming out moment with Dad was brief and at the kitchen table. I had held long standing resentments towards him growing up. A difficult relationship of my making, not his. It was late and we were drinking tea.

"You know, I think I should do something about my sexuality. I need to get on with it", I said thoughtfully.
"Well, perhaps you should try a woman", Dad said in earnest.
"Perhaps, you should try a man then", I responded without missing a beat.
Silence from the other end of the kitchen table. Dad paused and he looked at me. He said deliberately
"Yes, I see your point", and chuckled.
 We laughed. Then he said,
"I know you have resented me for years and I understand. I want you to know I love you for who you are and who you will become always. Never let anyone make you feel second rate because of your sexuality, or for who you are. And, I will wait for to you love me. I love you son."

It is hard to tell this without tears welling up. Dad is a quiet soul with a mild stutter. He always seemed weak to me. I was not mature enough to understand his stoic brand of strength. He did not play that superhero comic role of masculinity. I knew in the moment he spoke those words how big a person it took to say them. It was an enormous thing to acknowledge my journey with him with so much love and peace. I was utterly humbled. Years of resentment fell away and never returned. He is a good man and a quiet hero.

My Mother was more like a Trojan Horse.The warrior spirit.We are very similar. After several years of patiently listening to me be confused Mum decided to take matters into her own hands. It was late, we were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea. I had not yet converted to coffee. We sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table, exactly as I had with Dad. She studied me intently and silently. She took a puff of her cigarette. She did not smoke, she puffed, there was a difference apparently according to her. But, I digress.

"Julius, you talk about your sexual identity like someone who has longed to go to Rome.You have talked about it for years now. And , quite honestly, it is getting boring to the listener. I suggest  you buy a plane ticket, go to Rome and tell me all about your experience on your return", she said.
She took another 'puff' on her cigarette, stood up and said, "Good night".

That was it.That was my big coming out talk and it was defined as a 'flight to Rome'. She did call me Julius after all, which she explained was due to the fact she had a close affinity to Classical Rome. She had done her finals thesis on Roman Architecture at University. Also, the coffee is great there, by the way. That journey is also responsible for my conversion from tea to coffee. But, I digress.

Still a virgin, no plane tickets yet bought, Mum took me to see Daniel Day Lewis in "My Left Foot". I arrived late at The Bakers Street Cinema and met Mum in the lobby. At that moment a tall man with shoulder length blond hair turned around and smiled at me. He wore a black leather jacket and tight jeans. I recall a  classic handsome face. I smiled furtively and looked at Mum. She winked, smiled and nodded in conspicuous approval. The blond man noticed the exchange and smiled a broad smile. Oh lord, get me out of here, I thought. I was in denial that Mum was doing this. I was embarrassed.
The blond man opened the doors for us to go into the movie and smiled. Mum nudged me, winked  and smiled. I was still in denial that she was doing this.This is not my mother, I do not know this woman, was all I was thinking.

The movie ended. It was profound. It was moving. Daniel Day Lewis won an Oscar that year. But, Mum was more interested in the blond man who was walking up the stairs to the exit right in front of us and within earshot.
"You  know, now that young man is exactly the type of boy any mother would like to see her son bring home", she said loudly and not at me.
Oh no she didn't , came to mind, would the floor open up right now and swallow her, I said to my self, while grimacing.The blond man turned around smiling in agreement.
"There is a lovely hotel close by, we should all go for tea", she said to the entire lobby.
"Um, no Mother we are GOING home", I replied for the sole benefit of that entire lobby.

We were now in the street. It was dark out , the 159 red London bus rushed by us. The blond man was loitering about, wondering what would happen next.
"We are going home now", I said to the street.
My Mother looked at me and said,
"Hm, I should go out with you more often without me you will never a get a date!".

Looking back at that now I have to laugh. She was not entirely wrong in that assessment.

When I finally got laid. I arrived home after the deed was done. My parents were at that kitchen table and I announced.
"I am not a virgin anymore. I did it".
I finally bought that ticket to Rome.They paused.Mum took a puff on her cigarette, slowly. Dad choked on his tea. There was calm.
"Did you wear condoms?", Mother asked, always a practical woman.
"Yes", I replied.
"Good. Daddy go to bed , we can talk tomorrow", Mother said.He got up said good night and smiled.
"I feel like a shower , you know,  freshen up", I said.
"Good, I will make some tea and we can talk all about it", she said, tea being the answer every experience in life.

We drank tea and talked about everything last thing I did. We laughed. She kissed me good night. So, I went to 'Rome' and my parents were there with love to support me as they always have.

I know I am blessed to have experienced these two souls who just so happened to be my parents.

Peace

The power of fragility within transience....

I took a sip of coffee and looked out of the window onto the back yard. It is, as usual, early and the half light of dawn is slowly transforming into day. It is my birthday this week. I will be forty five. I am middle aged. I took another sip of coffee and was still. Wow, time flies and other cliched phrases came to mind. Then a passage from a poem I studied at school materialized from amongst the cliches:

"At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance."

The 'still point of the turning world' defined by TS Eliot in 'Burnt Norton' succinctly describes our search for what is permanent to make sense of the transient nature of our life on earth.This poem is part of the 'Four Quartets' that was published in 1944. This quartet of poems are a meditation on time and the timeless. We seek that still point.We look to Faith to aid us in that quest. We might even look within, but our goal ultimately is to control that which we cannot ever control. That we, like life, are in a permanent state of flux.The irony is that change is the one constant in our lives. And, we fear it because it brings with it age and death.

Ovid wrote about it in his famous epic prose poem"Metamorphosis's". Malevich's white on white paintings tried to capture the infinite soul within the frame of a canvas, and failed. We have a fascination for change. Linda Evangelista can change her hair color to become the Chameleon of the fashion world.Cindy Sherman uses Art to reveal the manipulation of self. Madonna uses transformation to keep us interested and to remain relevant.

We should embrace each phase of our lives, but we seldom do. The aging process is ruthless. It is even harder for those who placed their sole value entirely in their physical self. This is a battle we are genetically designed to lose.

I read this past week in the New York Times about a therapist who committed suicide. He was forty nine years old. A successful man, who helped countless people build better lives. He was concerned about aging and loosing his looks. On paper he owned a condo, had a long term relationship, that was ending, traveled and was respected in the community. He had written a book called  "The Right Side of Forty;A Complete Guide to Happiness for the Gay Man in Midlife and Beyond". Ironically, he committed suicide because, as the article explained, he feared aging.

The power of beauty in society is a reality. And, it holds true within the gay community. A mans muscles and good looks lend him tremendous power over others. He is bestowed with many great projections of talents, character and other gifts from his audience. It is seductive and the rewards are real and in abundance. One can be drunk on it. One can loose the self to it all. Only that as you age you might not be able to find that same self that would have helped you accept your loss of physical appeal. The loss of the power it lent for a brief moment of youth, and that your relevance has expired. There is always a new model that everyone wants to drive. This article in the New York Times made me reflect on my own path to mid life.

I was fascinated by transience as a student. I read Ovid, Hermann Hesse, Rainer Maria Rilke and so forth. I read many books dealing with spiritual paths. I have made many such trips. I stayed in a Benedictine monastery, visited a hospice run my Nun's and spent many years wondering around the planet thinking about the transience of life and our complete lack of control over it.

I went to the gym. I enjoyed the physical, for we are flesh not only spirit. Balance is key to life. I embrace both equally. But, I always regarded youth like holding a beautiful butterfly in my palm. I could never hold onto it, for its beauty lies in its powerful fragility. To grip it would be to destroy it. So, while it flutters in my palm I experience its pleasures knowing always it will fly away. I value each moment without fear as to its loss.

I taught my 'self' to learn to detach its value from my body. My father always said to sew seeds for future growth and one of them was to firmly establish a spiritual core that transcended the body I inhabited.Youth is a glorious thing. It burns bright and dies. I have never played a game I feel I will loose. A wise man knows his weakness and his strengths. We are blessed with gifts and we should enjoy them.

I thought of this man who killed himself, who was invested in the physical for the acceptance, love and power his beauty lent him. I thought of many people I have crossed paths with for whom this was a path well trodden. I have walked along it and with no regrets for my stock was never invested in any of it.

I had been watching the movie 'Dangerous Liaisons' and there was a line in it that rang true.The Marquise (Glenn Close) says,"vanity and happiness are incompatible". I think there is a truth to that. Vanity, or narcissism needs to be fed from without. Self acceptance is fed from within. The former is on and endless quest and knows no peace. The latter has power, as it does not rely on the changing world of perceptions for it's peace. It is still.

As a gay man, as a fellow member of the human race, we all face the finite nature of our lives. I love to dance and when the dance of life is done the still point is there. It is within us. To experience the eternal we have to transcend the finite.To give up desire , suffering, pleasure to find stillness, to find God, or the infinite within. It is to know and be still.This is what T S Eliot is exploring in this poem. This is concept is not lost in pslam 46:10 either,  "Be still and Know that I am God".

Goldmund in 'Narcissus and Goldmund', by Hermann Hesse, said "It was the overcoming of the transitory. I saw that something remained of the fools play, the death dance of human life. Something remained lasting: works of art. They too will probably perish someday; they'll burn or crumble or be destroyed. Still, they out last many human lives; they form a silent empire of images and relics beyond the fleeting moment. To work at that seems good and comforting to me, because it almost succeeds in making the transitory eternal'.

I cried a deep silent cry of recognition of the beauty of that passage when I first read it at eighteen. It would take many years to understand it as I do now at forty five. I have painted, made images in paintings, of others,  myself, designed clothes and costumes. I am right now fixing words on here to send out into the ether. Even this moment will pass. And so it is. And, it is beautiful. I let it all go. I can take nothing with me. I celebrate those agile chameleons of life . May they, may you, burn bright,  dance with joy and may we do it in the full understanding of that still point in this turning world.

Peace.