(Gananoque, Ontario, July 15)
I am sitting in a white and purple cabin with fake deer lawn ornaments and petunia beds out front overlooking the highway. We are in the Thousand Islands district of Ontario. My brother and his wife picked me up at Toronto airport a week ago. We had a wonderful five days at their friends' cottage near Algonquin Provincial Park. Northern Ontario reminds me of Alaska. The landscape is just gorgeous. We saw a black bear and two moose, along with loons, turtles, hummingbirds, etc. Canada - wow!
I have been away from Kuwait for a month. I’m having a cup of black coffee and some cold, leftover steak and mushroom pie that I ordered at a restaurant last night. I just got back from a walk in a cemetery that borders these rental cottages. I woke up too early and felt restless. The walk seemed to help. I put out a general invitation to all the ghosts to let them know that I would be glad to have a friend who has seen the bigger picture and might be willing to help me figure shit out. I didn’t get any responses, just a few mosquito bites. I recalled the memory of Brahmin big brother TS telling me that I should regard all trouble and confusion like inevitable grass and weeds growing up everywhere until my happy ending arrives.
I was in Europe for three weeks, but I didn’t do much sightseeing. I flew into Basel, Switzerland, and stayed in a hostel for one night, then took a train to Lure, France where I was met by a forty-something guy from London with a bright smile and a Mohawk haircut. This was Lovestar, the guy I’d connected with through email. I was now in the company of “Faeries,” a little-known subculture of gay hippies with whom I have often felt very at home. My own Faerie nickname, “Cannoli,” would be put to use once again, through I have often told myself that Cannoli is no more. Lovestar helped me load my bags in the trunk of his car, where his partner, Spider, sat having a cigarette. Spider has beautiful soft eyes and blond hair, but most people only see his multiple piercings and face tattoos. With time I learned a little about his turbulent life as the child of two junkies who abandoned him to a system full of bad influence and regular abuse. These two Londoners would be my main companions for much of my time in France. Both were hard-core London punk-queers, and some of the details of their world left me speechless, but they were authentic, gentle, and kind, as Faeries are prone to be. Spider was a great cook and a hard worker, chopping wood and tending the vegetable garden every day. Lovestar preferred sunbathing to labor, but he was the brains of the operation, planning for the solstice gathering, coordinating shopping trips and train station pick-ups, etc. People trickled in over the next few days. A wild-haired and witty inter-faith minister, tall and lean despite his 50+ years, now studying Jungian psychology in Zurich; a delicate and soft-spoken Frodo/Harry-Potter look-alike with chronic fatigue disorder and an extensive knowledge of Native American medicine ritual; a golden-hearted sissy who sang Tina Turner songs and hid the stretch marks that told of his growing up obese; a fair-skinned and quiet Dutch truck driver who looks good in a white silk slip and didn’t try to keep up with the English and egos of the gathering; his sage-eyed partner, confident in his knowledge of plants and skilled at using divining rods to find water and energy meridians on land as well as chakras in the body. You get the picture. Not your average bunch of KOA campers.
The place is called “Folleterre” which means “Land of Fools,” and it so happens that folle in French is coincidentally a common pejorative term for homosexual--the equivalent of “fag.” Anyhow, a group of European Faeries bought the place about five or six years ago. It has an old farmhouse with an attached barn, lots of wooded acreage, some apple trees, and a couple water springs. The house has neither electricity nor modern plumbing. So far, it is only occupied during the summer months. The first time I traveled up the mountainside and along its long driveway, I felt like I might have been in Tennessee or Pennsylvania instead of France. Over the course of the week we hiked in the hills, bathed with big pots of hot water heated on a wood stove, cooked and ate delicious stews, stir-fries and pasta dinners along with lots of bread and cheese bought in the village. We had “heart circles” during which we talked about our life journeys and the various challenges and dilemmas we faced. My pressing question was whether to leave for a week for a stay at Taize, an ecumenical monastery and pilgrimage destination in Burgundy, just a train ride away in physical distance but certainly a world away in other respects. Some of the faeries were baffled why I would want to go to a Christian pilgrimage destination, but there was one who had been there three times before, and his comment was, “If anybody gets Christian spirituality right, they do at Taize.”
On the eve of Solstice we hiked up to a beautiful outcrop of rock which is considered a kind of sacred spot on the land, and we paid homage to the setting sun. Then we gathered blankets and supplies and moved to a small prairie where we built a nice fire and had storytelling, drumming, and wine through the night. A few tents had been put up for anyone who didn’t want to sleep under the stars, and I eventually got sleepy and parted company with the revelers. Before the sun came up, Spider came and told me to come and play my recorder to signal wake-up call. We had agreed to hike to Blueberry ridge, the highest point on the land, to welcome the Solstice sun. The march up the moonlit path was marked by mixed giggling from those who’d been up all night and the groans from those who’d gone to sleep and weren’t really ready to be awake again. The sunrise was not particularly spectacular, but it was nice to have a quiet hour with the bracken ferns as we waited for the sun to peek through the pines.
I decided to go to Taize. It was not easy getting there. I caught a ride for part of the way with the Dutch guys and ended up in an off-track location. It was a Sunday, and there were no internet cafes open, so I had difficulty getting directions. There are two towns called Taize in France, and I almost went to the wrong one. What should have been a three or four hour trip took all day, and I arrived late at night. When I first got there I felt completely out of place. For one thing, the primary focus there is on an invitation to young people, and the older generation is sparsely represented. While the young people did not seem particularly religious, the people my own age were mostly ministers and serious committed Christians, primarily non-Catholic. I made the adjustment by paying attention to the less-pious members of the pilgrim population. There were teenagers there who seemed to be having a rock concert experience (I smelled funny smoke near the tent camping area at least once). On the first or second day I sat by some teenage boys who sang along with the Taize chants in mocking falsetto voices. A nearby mother grew impatient with her fussy baby, and when she yanked the kid up to carry him out, the little tyke farted--which caused those teenage guys to bust into convulsions of stifled laughter. I got a kick of those bad boys. I also got a kick out of the one middle-aged monk who, in contrast to others, sat with his arms folded and his legs crossed and looked about with a totally bored expression during the services, as if to suggest that he couldn't wait to get out of there and go back to fix himself a big bowl of Cheerios. I think I was fascinated by out-of-place folks who, in their innocence, somehow evaded the gravity of the place and its strong spirituality. Maybe those boys eventually succumbed to the pervasive atmosphere of holiness like I did. I have the genes for religiosity, and I am easily swept up. I told my discussion group from the onset that I wasn’t really comfortable calling myself a “Christian,” but gradually the layers of the resentment, shame, and frustration of my knotted-up life and uneasy dance with Christianity just sort of fell away. By the third day I let go of resistance. It had a lot to do with the openness and vulnerability of people I met there. I suppose there is safety in a place where everyone comes together from a different corner of the earth, and people find it easier to be genuine. I felt mutual trust and acceptance with people I never imagined would understand me. Most notable was a Methodist minister from Louisiana. He was just as polite and southern as you'd ever find, and at first seemed almost like a stereotype to me, but we became friends, and what a heart of compassion he had. The actual services in the church certainly didn’t feel like any church I had ever been in before. There was absolutely no feeling of religious authority, only a focus on prayer and openness. By the time I left, I felt transformed. Was it brainwashing, crowd psychology, or God? I don’t know, and it doesn‘t really matter. I left Taize so full of love and peace, I spontaneously kept tearing with joy and thanksgiving up as I bumbled through my inevitable missed trains and communication break-downs on the way back to Folleterre. In fact, a missed connection caused me to be two hours late getting back to the station at Lure, and Lovestar and Spider had had such an ordeal trying to be there to pick me up (running out of gas, dealing with their own quarrels, losing patience as train after train arrived with no Cannoli) that they finally gave up and went home with the idea that I’d get a taxi and find my way back. Instead I slept on a park bench in the company of two poplar trees that seemed to hover over me protectively as Taize chants continued to echo in my head.
(continued, July 28, 2008, Ephrata, Pennsylvania)
The return to Folleterre after Taize was very strange. I didn’t feel free to talk about my experience because I understood that Christianity is viewed as oppressive and antagonistic by those guys. Meanwhile, what was normal thinking and behavior for them struck me as unhealthy and confused. There was nothing they were doing that I hadn’t myself done before (except maybe Acid), but it just felt dark and twisted to me after coming from that bath of prayer and contemplation. Did I feel out of place? Well, yes I did. But I’m glad I went back and had that last week at Folleterre. It was a great exercise in acceptance and perspective. It was like seeing an aspect of myself from a remarkable point of view that I never held before. At the same time, I felt love and respect for those guys. We all walk our own tightropes, and they are on paths of their own which I have to believe fit into the big picture just as the chapters of my life fit into mine. Anyhow, they were extremely respectful and kind to me during that last week. We took dinner to a neighbor, a handsome young German skinhead who had cut his thumb very badly while using a sickle. He had a bang-up electric guitar which he plugged in for me so I could impress him with my rudimentary 12-bar blues, something that seemed very cool and American to him. We hiked over the hills and trespassed on some land to have a swim in the beautiful clear pond. Spider was thrilled when little fishes nibbled at his toes. Later, while washing dishes, Lovestar asked me to sing him a Taize chant, and I sang, "Nada te turbe, nada tespante, quien a Dios tiene, nada le falta, Nada te turbe, nada tespante, solo Dios, basta!" (Nothing can trouble, nothing can frighten, those who seek God shall never go wanting, Nothing can trouble, nothing can frighten, God alone fills us.)
When Lovestar dropped me off at the station, he said "God bless you" and I said "God bless you" back to him. It felt a little funny because I knew he was sort of regarding me as somebody “religious,” and maybe I myself was trying to play a role there, but it was a loving and respectful goodbye for both of us. If we were put together with different timing and context, the roles would probably be reversed. Life doesn't make sense on any comprehensible level. The challenge must be to let go of control and really trust in the flow of time with its so-called accidents and surprises. Time itself really is God’s great symphony. T-shirts and bumper stickers are not required.
I have been home for two weeks. I’ve had a lot of time for just sitting around thinking about life, and that is exactly what I needed. It is a beautiful summer morning in Ephrata, the air feels perfect and the sunshine is friendly and gentle on the greenery. Poor Kuwait--once I left it, every place I went seemed so wonderful. But I have no dread of going back to Kuwait. When people ask me how I feel about going back for my second year, I answer that I am very comfortable about returning. The fact that my situation there buys me time to make important decisions about my future feels like a perfect arrangement. Many of my students will be the same ones I worked with last year, and I’m looking forward to seeing them again. When I look at photos I realize just how much I love those little turds. For now, I’ve settled in with the company of family and familiar territory for welcome summer vacation. I am slowly coming down from the high of adventure and spiritual focus. I’ve smoked a pack and a half of small cigars and downed a few beers and bloody marys, bitched about stupid things that bug me, and stolen peeks at internet sites that are banned in Kuwait. In other words, I’m still the same little mess I always was… but I am allowed to hope that the good things that have been planted in me will grow. I have about a month to just hang out and enjoy the greenness of Pennsylvania and the ease of being at home. My mother is keeping the kitchen stocked with home-made cookies and cherry pies to make sure I don’t die of starvation. I opened packages I ordered from Amazon.com in advance from Kuwait. Mostly books to help in learning Arabic. When I looked at the stack of them I realized how much I really have invested in Kuwait. I don’t have any intention of staying there any further than the one additional year to which I’m obligated by my contract. But, at this halfway point I do feel that I can give myself a pat on the back for making the most of my time there on many levels. When I left Ephrata last August, my dad said, “For crying out loud, give it your best shot!” We had been kidding about some of those old expressions like “for crying out loud…” and he was joking and being serious at the same time. And, for crying out loud, I think I have been giving it my best shot, and insha’allah I’m going to keep doing that. But right now it’s the middle of the night in Kuwait, and the temperature is 108 degrees, and I don’t miss anything about it.
I was in Europe for three weeks, but I didn’t do much sightseeing. I flew into Basel, Switzerland, and stayed in a hostel for one night, then took a train to Lure, France where I was met by a forty-something guy from London with a bright smile and a Mohawk haircut. This was Lovestar, the guy I’d connected with through email. I was now in the company of “Faeries,” a little-known subculture of gay hippies with whom I have often felt very at home. My own Faerie nickname, “Cannoli,” would be put to use once again, through I have often told myself that Cannoli is no more. Lovestar helped me load my bags in the trunk of his car, where his partner, Spider, sat having a cigarette. Spider has beautiful soft eyes and blond hair, but most people only see his multiple piercings and face tattoos. With time I learned a little about his turbulent life as the child of two junkies who abandoned him to a system full of bad influence and regular abuse. These two Londoners would be my main companions for much of my time in France. Both were hard-core London punk-queers, and some of the details of their world left me speechless, but they were authentic, gentle, and kind, as Faeries are prone to be. Spider was a great cook and a hard worker, chopping wood and tending the vegetable garden every day. Lovestar preferred sunbathing to labor, but he was the brains of the operation, planning for the solstice gathering, coordinating shopping trips and train station pick-ups, etc. People trickled in over the next few days. A wild-haired and witty inter-faith minister, tall and lean despite his 50+ years, now studying Jungian psychology in Zurich; a delicate and soft-spoken Frodo/Harry-Potter look-alike with chronic fatigue disorder and an extensive knowledge of Native American medicine ritual; a golden-hearted sissy who sang Tina Turner songs and hid the stretch marks that told of his growing up obese; a fair-skinned and quiet Dutch truck driver who looks good in a white silk slip and didn’t try to keep up with the English and egos of the gathering; his sage-eyed partner, confident in his knowledge of plants and skilled at using divining rods to find water and energy meridians on land as well as chakras in the body. You get the picture. Not your average bunch of KOA campers.
The place is called “Folleterre” which means “Land of Fools,” and it so happens that folle in French is coincidentally a common pejorative term for homosexual--the equivalent of “fag.” Anyhow, a group of European Faeries bought the place about five or six years ago. It has an old farmhouse with an attached barn, lots of wooded acreage, some apple trees, and a couple water springs. The house has neither electricity nor modern plumbing. So far, it is only occupied during the summer months. The first time I traveled up the mountainside and along its long driveway, I felt like I might have been in Tennessee or Pennsylvania instead of France. Over the course of the week we hiked in the hills, bathed with big pots of hot water heated on a wood stove, cooked and ate delicious stews, stir-fries and pasta dinners along with lots of bread and cheese bought in the village. We had “heart circles” during which we talked about our life journeys and the various challenges and dilemmas we faced. My pressing question was whether to leave for a week for a stay at Taize, an ecumenical monastery and pilgrimage destination in Burgundy, just a train ride away in physical distance but certainly a world away in other respects. Some of the faeries were baffled why I would want to go to a Christian pilgrimage destination, but there was one who had been there three times before, and his comment was, “If anybody gets Christian spirituality right, they do at Taize.”
On the eve of Solstice we hiked up to a beautiful outcrop of rock which is considered a kind of sacred spot on the land, and we paid homage to the setting sun. Then we gathered blankets and supplies and moved to a small prairie where we built a nice fire and had storytelling, drumming, and wine through the night. A few tents had been put up for anyone who didn’t want to sleep under the stars, and I eventually got sleepy and parted company with the revelers. Before the sun came up, Spider came and told me to come and play my recorder to signal wake-up call. We had agreed to hike to Blueberry ridge, the highest point on the land, to welcome the Solstice sun. The march up the moonlit path was marked by mixed giggling from those who’d been up all night and the groans from those who’d gone to sleep and weren’t really ready to be awake again. The sunrise was not particularly spectacular, but it was nice to have a quiet hour with the bracken ferns as we waited for the sun to peek through the pines.
I decided to go to Taize. It was not easy getting there. I caught a ride for part of the way with the Dutch guys and ended up in an off-track location. It was a Sunday, and there were no internet cafes open, so I had difficulty getting directions. There are two towns called Taize in France, and I almost went to the wrong one. What should have been a three or four hour trip took all day, and I arrived late at night. When I first got there I felt completely out of place. For one thing, the primary focus there is on an invitation to young people, and the older generation is sparsely represented. While the young people did not seem particularly religious, the people my own age were mostly ministers and serious committed Christians, primarily non-Catholic. I made the adjustment by paying attention to the less-pious members of the pilgrim population. There were teenagers there who seemed to be having a rock concert experience (I smelled funny smoke near the tent camping area at least once). On the first or second day I sat by some teenage boys who sang along with the Taize chants in mocking falsetto voices. A nearby mother grew impatient with her fussy baby, and when she yanked the kid up to carry him out, the little tyke farted--which caused those teenage guys to bust into convulsions of stifled laughter. I got a kick of those bad boys. I also got a kick out of the one middle-aged monk who, in contrast to others, sat with his arms folded and his legs crossed and looked about with a totally bored expression during the services, as if to suggest that he couldn't wait to get out of there and go back to fix himself a big bowl of Cheerios. I think I was fascinated by out-of-place folks who, in their innocence, somehow evaded the gravity of the place and its strong spirituality. Maybe those boys eventually succumbed to the pervasive atmosphere of holiness like I did. I have the genes for religiosity, and I am easily swept up. I told my discussion group from the onset that I wasn’t really comfortable calling myself a “Christian,” but gradually the layers of the resentment, shame, and frustration of my knotted-up life and uneasy dance with Christianity just sort of fell away. By the third day I let go of resistance. It had a lot to do with the openness and vulnerability of people I met there. I suppose there is safety in a place where everyone comes together from a different corner of the earth, and people find it easier to be genuine. I felt mutual trust and acceptance with people I never imagined would understand me. Most notable was a Methodist minister from Louisiana. He was just as polite and southern as you'd ever find, and at first seemed almost like a stereotype to me, but we became friends, and what a heart of compassion he had. The actual services in the church certainly didn’t feel like any church I had ever been in before. There was absolutely no feeling of religious authority, only a focus on prayer and openness. By the time I left, I felt transformed. Was it brainwashing, crowd psychology, or God? I don’t know, and it doesn‘t really matter. I left Taize so full of love and peace, I spontaneously kept tearing with joy and thanksgiving up as I bumbled through my inevitable missed trains and communication break-downs on the way back to Folleterre. In fact, a missed connection caused me to be two hours late getting back to the station at Lure, and Lovestar and Spider had had such an ordeal trying to be there to pick me up (running out of gas, dealing with their own quarrels, losing patience as train after train arrived with no Cannoli) that they finally gave up and went home with the idea that I’d get a taxi and find my way back. Instead I slept on a park bench in the company of two poplar trees that seemed to hover over me protectively as Taize chants continued to echo in my head.
(continued, July 28, 2008, Ephrata, Pennsylvania)
The return to Folleterre after Taize was very strange. I didn’t feel free to talk about my experience because I understood that Christianity is viewed as oppressive and antagonistic by those guys. Meanwhile, what was normal thinking and behavior for them struck me as unhealthy and confused. There was nothing they were doing that I hadn’t myself done before (except maybe Acid), but it just felt dark and twisted to me after coming from that bath of prayer and contemplation. Did I feel out of place? Well, yes I did. But I’m glad I went back and had that last week at Folleterre. It was a great exercise in acceptance and perspective. It was like seeing an aspect of myself from a remarkable point of view that I never held before. At the same time, I felt love and respect for those guys. We all walk our own tightropes, and they are on paths of their own which I have to believe fit into the big picture just as the chapters of my life fit into mine. Anyhow, they were extremely respectful and kind to me during that last week. We took dinner to a neighbor, a handsome young German skinhead who had cut his thumb very badly while using a sickle. He had a bang-up electric guitar which he plugged in for me so I could impress him with my rudimentary 12-bar blues, something that seemed very cool and American to him. We hiked over the hills and trespassed on some land to have a swim in the beautiful clear pond. Spider was thrilled when little fishes nibbled at his toes. Later, while washing dishes, Lovestar asked me to sing him a Taize chant, and I sang, "Nada te turbe, nada tespante, quien a Dios tiene, nada le falta, Nada te turbe, nada tespante, solo Dios, basta!" (Nothing can trouble, nothing can frighten, those who seek God shall never go wanting, Nothing can trouble, nothing can frighten, God alone fills us.)
When Lovestar dropped me off at the station, he said "God bless you" and I said "God bless you" back to him. It felt a little funny because I knew he was sort of regarding me as somebody “religious,” and maybe I myself was trying to play a role there, but it was a loving and respectful goodbye for both of us. If we were put together with different timing and context, the roles would probably be reversed. Life doesn't make sense on any comprehensible level. The challenge must be to let go of control and really trust in the flow of time with its so-called accidents and surprises. Time itself really is God’s great symphony. T-shirts and bumper stickers are not required.
I have been home for two weeks. I’ve had a lot of time for just sitting around thinking about life, and that is exactly what I needed. It is a beautiful summer morning in Ephrata, the air feels perfect and the sunshine is friendly and gentle on the greenery. Poor Kuwait--once I left it, every place I went seemed so wonderful. But I have no dread of going back to Kuwait. When people ask me how I feel about going back for my second year, I answer that I am very comfortable about returning. The fact that my situation there buys me time to make important decisions about my future feels like a perfect arrangement. Many of my students will be the same ones I worked with last year, and I’m looking forward to seeing them again. When I look at photos I realize just how much I love those little turds. For now, I’ve settled in with the company of family and familiar territory for welcome summer vacation. I am slowly coming down from the high of adventure and spiritual focus. I’ve smoked a pack and a half of small cigars and downed a few beers and bloody marys, bitched about stupid things that bug me, and stolen peeks at internet sites that are banned in Kuwait. In other words, I’m still the same little mess I always was… but I am allowed to hope that the good things that have been planted in me will grow. I have about a month to just hang out and enjoy the greenness of Pennsylvania and the ease of being at home. My mother is keeping the kitchen stocked with home-made cookies and cherry pies to make sure I don’t die of starvation. I opened packages I ordered from Amazon.com in advance from Kuwait. Mostly books to help in learning Arabic. When I looked at the stack of them I realized how much I really have invested in Kuwait. I don’t have any intention of staying there any further than the one additional year to which I’m obligated by my contract. But, at this halfway point I do feel that I can give myself a pat on the back for making the most of my time there on many levels. When I left Ephrata last August, my dad said, “For crying out loud, give it your best shot!” We had been kidding about some of those old expressions like “for crying out loud…” and he was joking and being serious at the same time. And, for crying out loud, I think I have been giving it my best shot, and insha’allah I’m going to keep doing that. But right now it’s the middle of the night in Kuwait, and the temperature is 108 degrees, and I don’t miss anything about it.
Happy summer!
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