We,
who once discovered
in a flood that swept away
our self-hatred and alienation,
who now know that being ‘Beloved’
requires the rending
of all our sacred skies—
We,
who were driven into the wilderness,
who learned truth from wild creatures
and spiritual beings— Continue reading
Darkness of heaven,
beyond the moon’s painting
over my pale weariness,
I rest my fading body into your night.
I lay upon you
the sheer force of will
by which I hold together
this patched, unpainted frame.
How easily I could fly apart,
abandoned by gravity,
into a thousand pieces,
just glassy shards of flesh.
Must I then
be swept away
as shattered debris
of dust and ashes?
Or might I,
from every glinting fragment,
each threatening splinter,
still glitter persistently?
(two months and twelve days after legal marriage)
Love of my life,
how redundant it felt
to make vows of marriage
having traveled
a thirty-one year road.
Did we not take vows the night we
set out on this journey:
anointed by coffee at Perkins
sanctified on a sofabed alter?
Neither of us anticipated then
that a day would come
when force of law would bind us.
But court rulings do not define the heart.
On our thirty-first anniversary of love,
I undertake this vow:
No “I do” shall supersede
our queer covenant:
to be friends and lovers first
and married second
to value spiritual growth
above conventional relationship
and create “family”
intentionally
to dance across the lines
of social respectability
and seek justice
promiscuously
to celebrate sexuality
spiritually
and sex
playfully
to risk adventure
flagrantly
and seek joy
recklessly
So that whatever life may throw in our path,
our world may be renewed
just by our traveling
together.
I never imagined—
back when, before I can remember,
I learned to “hold it”
and “go” at my own command,
or when, even in recent memory
control seemed simply natural (complex and unnatural as it was)
—that a day would come
when, with constant self reminders,
I again would need to learn to “hold it”
and wished I would go only at my own command.
It feels so unnatural (as it is)
to have to will oneself to continence.
I entertained no notion—
back when, with teenage hormones rising,
my awkwardly positioned hands covered
inconvenient evidence of unconfined libido,
or when, even in recent years,
stamina alone limited me
—that a day would come
when, with wearying desire,
I would strive to manifest that libido
and would hope for its unbidden evidence.
It seems so unnatural (and it is)
to have to train one’s body for arousal.
I failed to see—
in youth and even naïve older age
before thought-less acts
lost their second-nature;
before they demanded
constant thought
—this day,
in which divided attention
yields unpleasant consequences,
and pleasant consequences require undivided attention.
It feels weirdly natural now
to think my body through its urges.
An old friend stopped by the other day, having heard through his colleague, who heard from my Gay Old Soulmate, of my diagnosis. I don’t think we have seen each other since my Gay Old Soulmate and I went down to the Schuylkill to watch him in the dragon boat races four years ago, and I, with my poor eyesight, strained in vain to figure out which figure in which boat was he. He commented that in earlier times we would hardly go three days without seeing one another. That was a different lifetime for us both.
A doctor, he asked the medical questions about staging and Gleason scores and mentioned some other numbers that I didn’t understand. It felt as though he knew more about my prognosis from my limp attempt to describe what the surgeon had told us than I did myself—which felt comforting. It recalled the time he saved my life. Fifteen or sixteen years ago. I waited for a liver transplant. One night I began bleeding internally. Blissfully ignorant, I knew only that I had not the strength to get up from the bathroom floor. My Gay Old Soulmate called him in desperation, and he came in the middle of the night. I presume he grasped the critical nature of my condition when he saw me. But I insisted they take me to a hospital across town where I knew the doctors. He advised calling the ambulance. He told me he would let me ride across town if I could make it down the stairs on my own energy. I could only go, sitting butt down, stair by stair, one step at a time. That settled it. He called 911, conveying the urgency to the operator with a host of medical terms I did not fully comprehend and now do not remember. I remember only that the ambulance came and I made it to the emergency room on time.
Now we primarily see each other on Facebook, or at times of crisis like this. It feels good to see him settled on the sofa again. We pick up with news of each other’s lives, his partner’s Ph.D. defense, my recent retirement and our celebratory trip to Phoenix to visit his ex—and cancer. The intertwining of our lives no longer brings us face to face with any frequency. But our lives remain connected. Even over the years and chasm of experience that caused our worlds to diverge, we are bound together.
We no longer promise, as we once did, “I’ll call you,” or say, “We should get together more often.” We know we won’t. Without fail, another diagnosis, another dragon boat race, or . . . . We will see each other again.
Recently, my Gay Old Soulmate and I took the scenic High Road from Santa Fe to Taos. The Santa Fe Official 2014 Travel Planner marked the route in blue, noting Chimayo only as “a small church built in the early 1800s.” It did not mention pilgrimages, multiple chapels, or holy dirt. We did not know we would enter a different world.
Not long after, I would be asked to preach on chapter 9 of the Gospel of John. There, Jesus thrusts a man born blind into a different world by giving him sight. The ensuing conflict most likely reflects tensions between the author’s community and the religious authorities of that day. But I found myself wondering more about the experience of the man who the Gospel says received Jesus’ form of holy dirt.
Twenty-two years ago, as spring arrived, my father’s spirit departed. I remember brilliant sun radiating through the windows. My mother remembers a windy day with snow on the ground. The difficult final weeks of his passage drew to a close with just a few shallow breaths and then–holy silence.
I am now only eight years younger than he was at the time that he died. I wish he could have lived to see his grandson teach at the college his father taught at. I wish he could have held his two great grandsons. Continue reading
Staff Recognition Award, nineteen hundred and ninety-four: the framed certificate came home with me last week. Twenty years after having been awarded that honor, I retired from the department that nominated me for it.
Gay men my age frequently identified with the stereotype, “the best little boy in the world.” Having grown up in a world that labeled us unworthy, we did all in our power to prove ourselves worthy. Knowing in our closeted hearts that we could never meet expectations, we exceeded expectations in our public lives. Even after we came out, those habits continued.
I had not planned to spend my working days as a secretary or administrator in an office unrelated to my interests. Continue reading
Somewhere in the vague infatuation that launched our relationship, my Gay Old Soulmate suggested that we should make it a ritual to tell each other, “I love you” each night before we slept.
In thirty years of falling to sleep beside him, those I love yous have had many nuances. At times, we spoke them with utter gratitude for the unimaginable good fortune of finding each other. At other times, we forced them past gritted teeth. But when the words came with the most difficulty, that was when we most needed the reminder that, beneath anger or alienation, a commitment tied us to each other’s welfare and growth. We were not being hypocritical—we were being intentional.
At heart, love is not a feeling but a way of living. Continue reading
The oil painting above my piano reminds me of lessons I too easily forget. Row upon row, the gray brush strokes, roughly an inch square, contain subtle elements of color. The color comes from a painting I wanted to paint—and attempted to. But the painting came from learning to let go of ideal notions that constrained me so I could allow experience to inspire something better.
Long, long ago, at a liberal arts college far, far away, a class of earnest, would-be artists, took a painting course to develop what they hoped might be talent. They discovered that painting entailed more than standing at the easel wearing a beret. They learned about color and line and to notice what wasn’t there as well as what was. They filled sketch books to practice the art of seeing their world beyond the obvious. Continue reading