Believe, by Ray S

Dear Friends,

I come to this meeting in hopes to gain some insight into what you have to write about this subject. For me “seeing is believing” is irrefutable.

But, then when we are so often confronted with America’s bumper sticker mentality “BELIEVE,” dare we ask in what? There are the declarations of the drivers’ school, fraternity, fish sign or amphibious fish, sexual persuasion, political beliefs, etc., etc.

Now this is where BELIEVE becomes nebulous, it’s every man or woman to his/her best. Watch out as this can sometimes be disastrous, and sometimes mind enlightening—depends on which side of the bed you got up on and sometimes with whom.

I expect to hear some inspiring and personally emotional beliefs. Thinking about how much of a private belief one owns can often be so much so that it is never shared or open for inspection.

The beliefs worn on the sleeves are far too often imposed on us by the “true believers.” They are the ones who are enlightened and always available for an opinion or argument—that is one of the negatives that arise more times than you would wish for. On the positive e side as is evidenced here we or most of us do have some self-evident beliefs that we share when the appropriate time shows up. These are the spiritual beliefs, not the ones you see, except in the responses by your friend or neighbor to your actions. This action has many names, but can be consolidated with the word LOVE. 

Denver, © 2016

Practical Joke, by Phillip Hoyle

Recalling clearly my eldest sister’s evaluation of the girls in her dorm five years before, [“They’re all so immature,” she said,] I wondered what I’d find in the boys dorm at the same small church-related college in north central Kansas five years later. Would there be a lot of horseplay, silliness, competition? Would the talk be rough, derisive, pious? I was pretty excited by the prospect of living around so many other guys because I had no brothers. Would I find a brother there? If so, would I like it? Who would I room with? Questions. What would be the answers? I already knew a little about the small burdens in that dorm, of needing to keep the room clean in order to pass periodic inspections, to fulfill duties of dust mopping hallways, straightening lounges, or cleaning shower rooms. Would I enjoy bull sessions?

I trudged up the steps of the rather new dorm toting my bags and boxes, depositing them in my room. Then in came my roommate—Roy his name—from a small southwest Kansas town out in the Great Plains where one can drive for a hundred miles without seeing trees or hills, where the wind blew without stop, where he attended a school with one hundred students including elementary and high school. I was lucky for, like me, Roy was studious, a seriously mature student. That helped both of us to get in good shape academically. And he was nice this slender, strong, black haired boy with a resonant voice and good manners. And he was clean.

I came to school with a stereo, a small LP collection, artwork to hang on the dorm room wall, and a two-drawer file cabinet. He came with some books, a basketball, running shoes, and a car. I came with years of musical experience; he with years of playing high school sports. We had both worked regular jobs. We shared our room, shared respect, and shared some classes for we were both ministerial students. We got along well.

Roy was athletic. He’d been the all-around great student in his graduating class: going out for all the sports, singing in the choir, dating the girls, even entering the state speech and debate tournament where he presented an interpretation of T. S. Elliot’s “The Hollow Men” for which he was awarded recognition. My eighteen-year-old mind didn’t grasp that serious poem; I wonder if his did. Some nights when Roy and I were studying in the dorm, he at his desk beneath the window, I in the middle of the room, I’d notice the floor vibrating. The first time I looked up for an explanation, I found Roy unconsciously bouncing his legs, setting the room shaking. This nervous habit may have been related to his fast speech, his hand movements when making some point, his fast metabolism that kept him slender.

There were some shenanigans in the dorm; what else would one expect from a group of undergraduates thrown together in close proximity with dorm hours that gathered us in at 10:00 pm. There was the din that finally quieted around 11:30. There were wrestling matches organized at odd hours. In general, we lived surrounded by other guys about our age, nice guys at that.

I noticed that most afternoons at the same hour Roy would return to the room following one of his classes. That particular afternoon I was reading at my desk when I got the idea, surely inspired by a current scary movie or simply by remembering life at home where one of us kids would scare another. I wondered if I’d really pull the practical joke becoming as immature as some of my dorm mates. When Roy was due to return, I turned off the light, crawled under his bed, and waited. It seemed a long wait, but finally the door opened. Roy walked over to put his books on his desk, then opened his closet door. All I could see were his feet. I was trying to figure out how most effectively to scare him: scream, grab, jump? Waiting I decided simply to reach out and clasp his ankles. Finally he took a step toward the bed and turned around into the perfect position with his back turned. I reached out, clasped his ankles and said nothing.

He said something, probably not anything he’d say from the pulpit, and screaming jumped. I suppressed my laughter and crawled from my hiding place. That was it. Fortunately Roy didn’t faint, and the practical joke did not end our friendship. It probably didn’t strengthen it though. We lived together two years more before the summer we both married our girlfriends. In fact, I gave my girlfriend an engagement ring in the backseat of his car while we were on a double date. My best guess? He forgave me.

© Denver, 2014

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Moving by Pat Gourley

Moving from one abode to another has been something I have done quite a bit of since moving to Colorado in December of 1972. A quick and probably incomplete count would indicate at least 13 moves and different living situations. And as of today I am seriously entertaining the possibility of a move back to San Francisco after the 1st of the year.

Now I suppose this could be viewed as an immature and possibly pathological inability to settle down but I prefer to look at as a chance to cleanse. This was brought home to me in a short comment on Facebook that someone made to a friend’s post about “moving again”. The commenter said he viewed his many moves as cleansing behavior since these changes in locale usually resulted in the jettisoning of fair amount of accumulated stuff.

I suppose if I tried to further rationalize my frequent moves I could put a Buddhist spin on it and think of it as one more lesson in impermanence. Now this lesson of impermanence certainly has come easier to me in my life than say a Syrian refugee whose home has been blown to bits or the Palestinian family who have repeatedly had their homes demolished by the Israeli army. It is even hard for me to imagine the loss experienced by people whose homes in South Carolina that were recently flooded or abodes blown completely away by a Kansas tornado.

When I think about it though my major lesson in impermanence has not been related to any physical moves I have made but rather by the death of my loving companion David in September of 1995. In the last days before his death when he would lay down to try to temper the significant pain he was experiencing and that liquid morphine was only dulling he would ask to be covered in a purple sarong I had purchased at some Grateful Dead concert a few years earlier. It was this simple piece of cloth that somewhat soothed his soul. It wasn’t his nice car, his extensive Haviland China collection, our nice home or the many of his beautiful stain glass creations but rather my foot rubs and then covering him with that shawl.

I still have that shawl now tattered and frayed and it lives on my zafu as stark reminder of my own impermanence. These days as I contemplate a move back to OZ the main driver for this planned relocation is to get back to the strong village aspect to living at the B&B. I have many more friends here but I don’t live with any of them and this is really a bit of a lonely situation. The likelihood of an old wrinkled HIV+ queen finding another partner is slim to non-existent.

I have used my current job at Urgent Care to partially fill this void of being alone and though I like and enjoy the company of my co-workers the seemingly endless stream of folks with abdominal pain, bleeding vaginas, heroin addiction and homelessness can be taxing.

I do enjoy people being in my business on a daily basis in my actual living situation. If I were to die at home now my cat would eat me before anyone would find me. In San Francisco I would have folks looking for me frequently if for no other reason than that they want their breakfast and it would be highly unlikely that they are seeking me out because their vagina is bleeding or they are jonesing bad for their next smack pop.

So once again I will be moving as a way of dealing with my own inevitable impermanence and hoping my last dance is in the company of folks who love me and I them.

Addendum February 18th, 2016: I will not be moving back to San Francisco but rather staying in Denver and making a concerted effort to incorporate even more fully the many friends I have here into my everyday life. Details on this decision will follow in future ramblings.

© November 2015

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

We're Not Done Yet, by Nicholas

I’m terrible at giving directions. I love maps but I don’t carry one in my head, so I have to pause and really think through how to get somewhere when asked. I also have set routine routes which, if departed from, leave me momentarily confused. I sometimes have to remind myself where I’m headed so I don’t automatically go somewhere else more familiar. And, of course, it’s hard to figure out where you should be going when, really, you’re not going anywhere at all.

New Year’s Day is always a time to reflect on where we’ve been and where we might want to go. A new year always provides the illusion of hope for a new start, a change from old bad habits before we sink back to those comfortable old bad habits.

This topic also seems to be buzzing around the blogosphere with online commentators—of whom there are about ten million—pondering where the LGBT movement is headed now that so much of the agenda that we always denied having has been accomplished. Some advocacy organizations, like Freedom to Marry, are actually closing up shop since they have accomplished their mission. Of course, we will still get funding solicitations from them. Other groups have begun to scale back their operations now that LGB, but maybe not T, issues have gone mainstream.

There needs to be a new agenda, say the blog masters. We’re at a point of having seen many—though not all—statutory barriers to living life gay or lesbian, and sometimes even trans, removed. Now what do we do?

Well, as the line goes, it ain’t over till it’s over. And, guess what, it ain’t over. I get suspicious or maybe even just paranoid when someone declares a movement over. Here it seems to mean that straight-acting, white men have gotten what they want, so everybody else should just quiet down and get on with things, like making money now that Big Money has found that the gay community is very easy to get along with.

So, we still have kids living on the street with practically no chance of a decent future without an education and a home. Bullying is still rampant in schools and school administrators are still reluctant to do anything about it.

If you’re in any way an effeminate male, a drag queen, a fairy, don’t expect the corporate law firms to welcome you. If you’re too strong a woman, your chances for success are probably reduced as well. And trans still makes most people squirm in their executive suites. Remember, in the TV show Will and Grace, Will operated in the corporate office while his flamboyant friend Jack was always scheming for ways to make it.

And, then, there’s us. The aging lesbian and gay and trans segment of the population that the still youth-obsessed society still doesn’t want to face. Many of us live in fearful isolation. Many, if not most, of us still fear being trapped and vulnerable in hostile situations such as nursing homes that are clueless if not simply hateful to LGBT elders. I don’t see myself as shy about who I am and who I live with, but I dread being consigned to some miserable and hostile facility. If school principals are reluctant to deal with bullying, nursing home administrators are about two centuries behind them.

Plenty of LGBT people are still marginalized and there is something we can do about it. Gay marriage was never the whole agenda and now that we have that we can get back to the original idea. We still need to build communities. We still need to figure out in a positive light who we are, how we are different, what we have to offer. In a way, the assimilation phase is over with marriage. Now we can go back to being ourselves. Not just dealing with needs and demands and issues, but with supporting one another and valuing one another in all our crazy diversity. We still need to find each other and join together.

Till death do us part, you might say.

© 4 January 2016

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Keeping the Peace, by Lewis

KEEPING THE PEACE

...IN EIGHT EXTREMELY DIFFICULT STEPS

(OR LEWIS' RULES OF ORDER)

1. Don't interrupt your adversary. Listen fully until you understand completely their position.

2. Say back to him or her what you think they said. "Did I get that right?"

3. If they say, "That's not what I said (or meant)", ask them to repeat. If they say, "Yes, that's right", continue.

4. Tell them specifically why you disagree. Ask them to repeat what you just said.

5. When the area of disagreement is clear to both parties, then: a) agree to disagree, or b) agree to break off the discussion until another day or until a mediator can be brought in or until areas of disagreement can be clarified or fact-finding takes place.

6. Never shout, threaten, or resort to ad hominem attacks.

7. Never make the argument personal or ego-centered.

8. Apologize if you step over the line. [Never be afraid to admit that you are wrong.]

9. Remember, above all, that cutting the baby in half is no substitute for lacking humility.

© 10 June 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Believing, by Gillian

'I believe in one god, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth, and of all things visible and invisible.'

So begins the Nicene Creed which I learned in Sunday School and for a while repeated most Sundays of the year. But sometime in my ninth year I had a kind of epiphany, accepting that I didn't believe a word of anything that went along with organized religion. I continued to accompany my mother to church, just being supportive, but determinedly kept my mouth shut when we proclaimed our religious beliefs of which I had, and still have, absolutely none.

So I never say 'I believe .... ' using the words to denote, as Voltaire puts it, believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe. That kind of belief is, to me, as cast in stone as sexual orientation. I cannot make myself believe something I don't believe any more than I can make myself be straight. I can pretend, as so many of us did once upon a time when we played it straight, I can say the Creed along with the best of them, but I cannot make myself believe.

I do use those words, as many people use them, to mean that I have seen or heard enough evidence to believe that, based on sound reasoning, something is true. This, according to many definitions, puts me firmly in the skeptics' box - relying on the rational and empirical: valuing thinking and seeing rather than making that blind leap of faith to belief.

In my own, albeit skeptical, way, I believe many many things.

For example: I believe that history will judge Obama well, for his sincerity and constant struggle to do what he truly believes to be the right thing. (Though he might do well to follow Churchill's plan; he said he knew history would be kind to him because he intended to write it.) And, speaking of Sir Winston, I believe that had I ever met him I would probably have disliked him. If he were running for office in November I doubt I would vote for him. Nevertheless, I believe most sincerely that I am forever in his debt. Without his inimicable stand against the Nazis, I believe that my life would have been very very different; quite possibly a lot shorter. Similarly, I believe I would not be casting my vote for Teddy Roosevelt with his bluster and his gunboats, but I also owe him a huge debt of gratitude. Without his foresight in initiating the National Park system, I would never be able to appreciate the magnificence of nature that was once this country. It would all be unrecognizable, long ago torn away by mining and drilling, or covered in concrete jungles of shopping malls and mansions. And these realizations make me believe, in turn, that few people - yes, even politicians - are an influence solely for good or evil, though there are some notable exceptions. Life is endlessly complex, as are the people and issues we encounter in it.

My most vehemently held belief, right now, is in the reality of global climate change. As I see it, everything else pales by comparison. What does it really matter that we finally have gay marriage, or that Syria is a failed state, or that, in spite of the efforts Obama is promising to make, we are so far from getting fire arms under any kind of meaningful control in this country? If we continue not only to ignore but actively to deny that climate change is now in our faces, what does anything else matter? It will change the lives of every single person on this earth. How anyone cannot see it is a total mystery to me. 2015 was example enough for anyone. It was the hottest year on record over the entire world in 135 years of modern record-keeping. Global sea-

level surged to new heights. Glaciers retreated for the thirty-first year in a row. Record greenhouse gases fill our atmosphere. And if global statistics don't impress you, aren't we watching it all happening almost every day on our televisions? Tornado alley now stretches from the Gulf to Canada, and every year it is harder to define 'tornado season' or 'hurricane season' - we simply have to expect anything anywhere anytime. There were more tornado-related deaths in this country during December of 2015 than in any previous December on record. Merry Xmas, all you deniers!

Almost more maddening, to me, than such idiots as those who toss snowballs about as proof against global warming, are those who acknowledge its existence but insist that it is a completely natural climate swing, such as there have always been, and therefor of no consequence. What?? During the last ice age, which I think we can all agree was not human-induced, the area that is now New York lay under a sheet of ice a mile thick. Should mankind be around for the next ice age, which I personally doubt, will we all shrug our shoulders as the wall of ice approaches and ignore it simply because it's a purely natural phenomenon? Surely we need to decide how we are going to survive global climate change rather than indulge in endless wrangles over the cause.

So does this mean that I believe climate change will cause the human race to be just one more species that goes extinct? There would be some justice in that, as we are, ourselves, causing the extinction of so many. But I cannot claim to believe that, per se, because there are simply not enough facts available. I think there's certainly some chance of an extinction in our relatively near future, but possibly not. We have survived many disasters: plagues and pestilence, wars and famines, earthquakes and volcanoes. But seeing that an estimated 99% of all species which ever existed are now extinct, I certainly believe that we will not go on forever.

One day we will be gone, our Little Blue Dot will heal itself from all our depredations, and humankind will leave no more than a hiccup in the geologic history of Planet Earth.

That, I, proud skeptic, do believe.

© January 2016

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

How Being Gay Has Directed My Spiritual Journey, by Carol White

For me, being gay has had everything to do with my spiritual journey. As you already know from prior stories, I was born a Methodist Christian and I was also born gay, and 27 years later those two things would come into great conflict with each other.

Growing up in the church I truly believed in Christianity, mainly because of the music associated with it. I sang in all the church choirs and felt as though I actually experienced the presence of God through the music. The last verse to one of the hymns we sang expresses the extent of my commitment:

“Were the whole realm of nature mine, That were an offering far too small.
Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my life, my soul, my all.”

So it was off to SMU to major in sacred music and become a minister of music in 1963 at a large Methodist church in Houston. Since SMU and Perkins School of Theology was a liberal college, I became a liberal Christian.

However, in my second year of graduate school I had come out to myself and had my first sexual experience with another woman. I had been in love with a couple of other girls in junior high and high school, but had not acted on it in any way, even though I wanted to more than anything in the world. Still, I waited ten years after my first crush to actually kiss another woman, and all of the fireworks went off. It was finally everything I had imagined and hoped for. I knew that I was a homosexual and I did not want to be one, because it was not accepted at the time and it seemed to be anathema to my chosen profession.

Simultaneously with starting to work at the church, I also started psychotherapy to try to be “cured” of my homosexuality, but the therapist that I had was very informed and instead helped me to accept myself as I am.

The fourth year of my job at Chapelwood in Houston was an extremely chaotic one emotionally. One of the women in my choir who was also single and who was my same age, 27, approached me and we began to have a very brief affair. As it turned out, she was the preacher’s mistress, and she told him about me and me about him. One of us had to go, and of course, it was me, since I was the woman and I was the gay one, and he was the man and straight, even though he was married and having an affair with a woman in his church which had been going on for years.

Leaving that church was the most difficult time of my life, since I was out on the street with two worthless masters degrees, no job, no profession, no friends, no money, and nowhere to turn. Spiritually speaking, I knew that I was okay with God, but I was not okay with the church.

I went to a gay bar, met another woman that I stayed with for eleven years, spent five years trying to settle in another profession, and had thirteen years of no spirituality at all.

In 1980 I became involved with PFLAG Denver, where I met Bishop Wheatley and his wife. Mel Wheatley said, “PFLAG is what church ought to be.” I will never forget that. It was a place where we observed and practiced unconditional love.

About that same time I started going to Mile Hi Church of Religious Science, where I learned the difference between spirituality and religion. They seemed to accept gay people as we were, and I felt once again that I had a community to belong to where I learned meditation and positive thinking and felt that I had re-established a relationship with God.

After about ten years of that, I realized that Science of Mind was just not true for me anymore, and stopped going to that church.

I had read a lot of spiritual books, but then I began reading Ken Wilber, a brilliant philosopher who lived in Denver, and I was truly struck by his philosophy, particularly Spiral Dynamics, and the spirituality that they talked about and espoused, Integral Spirituality, which was more similar to Buddhism but incorporated things from all the religions with meditation and mysticism. Being gay was not an issue at all.

I attended an Integral workshop and joined a Ken Wilber meetup group, where I found a spiritual home for about five years.

Since then, I have drifted away from that group and now — well, now I have no spiritual life or meditation practice or community. Now I am just going along with life and trying to be open to whatever might come next.

We shall see what happens.

© 2015

About the Author

I was born in Louisiana in 1939, went to Southern Methodist University in Dallas from 1957 through 1963, with majors in sacred music and choral conducting, was a minister of music for a large Methodist church in Houston for four years, and was fired for being gay in 1967. After five years of searching, I settled in Denver and spent 30 years here as a freelance court reporter. From 1980 forward I have been involved with PFLAG Denver, and started and conducted four GLBT choruses: the PFLAG Festival Chorus, the Denver Women’s Chorus, the Celebration ’90 Festival Chorus for the Gay Games in Vancouver, and Harmony. I am enjoying my 11-year retirement with my life partner of 32 years, Judith Nelson, riding our bikes, going to concerts, and writing stories for the great SAGE group.

What I Did for Love, by Will Stanton

It often has been said that love is the most powerful force in the world. I feel that this belief might have some merit, although it's hard for me to say. Perhaps I have had too little experience with love to know for sure. I have had brief moments in my life that felt like love, sometimes even somewhat prolonged feelings. I am very thankful for those moments and cherish their memory. In retrospect, however, thinking over my life, it feels as though I had very little love growing up and only moments of it since. Fate conspired against it.

That is why I procrastinated writing this short piece, even though I already had completed, way in advance, all the other subjects on our topic-list. I sensed that this would not be a particularly easy nor happy piece for me to write.

I seem to remember from childhood, rather than familial support and love, more prolonged feelings of tension, anxiety, confusion, dread, even draining of my spirit. It was only later when I learned more about psychology that I realized that my family was what is called a “looking good family,” that is, one that appears from the outside to be stable and normal; however, within, the family is dysfunctional. No, I do not recall much in the way of love in those years.

I had a partner for a while. I know that I was loved. The last years, however, turned out to be very stressful, for he suffered six years with lung and brain cancer. I took care of him the whole time. I know that he continued to love me, but the shadow of death took away much of the joy.

Since then, I have had a few really good, close friends. We care for each other. Yet, I have my own issues now to deal with, and those now predominate my thinking and feelings. Such concerns make it hard to for me at this time to love myself sufficiently enough to reach out and to love another.

During hardship and stress, I have turned to an antidote that is not practical, but does take my mind away from my sadness. In all likelihood, friends would advise me to dispense with this unproductive antidote; but, over time, it became a habit. At times, my mind is drawn back into its imaginings of being totally healthy, being the type of person who is capable of truly accepting and loving himself, and, therefore, has found love with another imagined companion of like kind. I have a creative, vivid imagination; therefore, I can construct scenarios that are superlatively idyllic. They are made of enduring beauty and love.

No, those imaginings are not the real thing; and, assuredly, they take away from my time and energy that, otherwise, could be spent reaching out to worthwhile people who might extend love in a realistic way. Yet, I am set in my ways. Without better health and greater spirit, I suppose that I shall remain as I am—and dream.

Painting by Maxfield Parrish

© 16 November 2015

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Aw Shucks, by Ricky

Aw Shucks! I have to work today and will miss SAGE’s Telling Your Story group. I was going to regale you with an awesome story of living and working on my grandparent’s farm. I got so dirty shucking corn husks that I had to shuck off my clothes and bathe in a galvanized wash tub at night. I guess you could say I was a dirty little shucker. In any case, since I must shuck off story group and go to work on Monday, there is no point in writing that awesome story. So, I guess I will just shuck off my clothes and go to bed instead. Night night.

© 5 April 5, 2015

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

I Gave Up, by Ray S

Over the years, if I try I can remember instances where it seems a situation is impossible or insurmountable. The solution promises only frustration and so you give up, move onto a problem that is solvable, and of course, of far less complication. If it’s too hard to deal with, you find something you can. The result is an accomplished challenge—even if it’s loading the dishwasher. The resulting sense of having done something puts you in a more positive frame of mind so you can face that first problem that you gave up on.

There are any number of ways to give up. Don’t answer the phone, turn off the damn computer, or drown the problem in some form of alcohol or narcotic of your choice. The latter seems very extreme, and a visit with your shrink or priest has its advantages.

Once upon a time apparently I had a secret desire that initially I didn’t even recognize. Just a fleeting half wish thought.

My little girl was on school holiday and I asked her if she would like to go on an errand with daddy. Yes! We were going on a ride to the city to deliver a package to the mother of one of my clients. When we arrived at the lady’s apartment it was a fine old pile dating back to the first part of the last century.

Upon answering our knock on her door we were greeted by a gracious and charming seventy-five year old that could remind one of the Queen Mother. After we delivered the package to her, our hostess invited Carolyn and me to visit and see the apartment. Finally at the conclusion of the tour Mrs. Anderson presented my daughter with a little gift. A small needlepoint canvas with the legend “Be a friend to have a friend.” We thanked Mrs. A. for her thoughtful and unexpected gift and went down the long hallway, down in the elevator to the lobby and out the big font door.

We both thought at the same time, “What would it be like to live in such another world as this?” The thought was so very wishful we dismissed it—not even considering it something to give up on.

A mere matter of some forty years or so has passed, and the now widowed daddy with both Caroline and her brother married with families of their own, found he needed a new address, something with no garden to till, no grass to mow, no snow to shovel. The apartment hunt was on.

Out of the blue my computer-wise daughter called me with a question. “Dad, do you remember when you and I went to that lady’s building to deliver a package and she gave me a gift?” She went on to say, “Well, guess what showed up on Craig’s List, a rental in that old building you took me to when I was six or seven.”

The rest of the story you have already guessed. The last place in my world that I will ever reside in is where I am now quite by chance and Craig’s List plus a wish-thought so very vague that at the time didn’t ever merit giving up on.

Be careful what you don’t wish for you may have to give up—or something!

© 19 October 2015

About the Author

The Choir, by Phillip hoyle

For most of my life, choirs were my life. They were the musical thrills of my childhood and much of my adulthood. They were the place I felt most at home. They were the groups I most enjoyed being with. They were the main medium of my musical life. They were the focus of my extra time. They were the preoccupation of my auditory mind. They were the organizations I most effectively led. They were my access to a sense of worship. They were the most fulfilling aspect of thirty years of my ministry in the church. Choirs made everything else tolerable. They were the artistic center of my life.

I got my first choir when I was eighteen years old, a small group of volunteer singers who rehearsed one hour on Sunday evenings in preparation for the very simple needs of the First Baptist Church, Wamego, Kansas. But my relationship with choirs reached back to my first weeks of life, for I am sure I was present at church the first Sunday after my birth. Surely mom sat with me cradled in her arms in the second pew on the west side of the sanctuary while Dad played the organ for the service and my two older sisters sang the hymns. I’m sure I heard the choir sing and wonder if the harmonies were fixed in my ear from that first weekend’s experience. I wouldn’t be surprised for I could hardly contain my excitement when I joined the junior choir at that same church some years later. Although I was a good all-around student, my favorite times in school related to music class. There I learned songs. There I sang. There I played rhythm instruments. There I learned my first solo and when I had finished singing it for the PTA members, turned around and conducted the rhythm band in a Saint Patrick’s Day repeat of “McNamara’s Band.” My first solo, my first effort at conducting; I was so pleased.

Choirs took me to more than PTA and church. They took me to music festivals, to competitions, on tours, and they introduced me to many people. Choirs gave me opportunities to sing a wide variety of music: age-old classics, modern jazz arrangements, long works with orchestra, anthems with organs, motets unaccompanied, folk song arrangements, and unusual hymns. They introduced me to the musicianship and leadership of many choral directors from around the United States.

Leading choirs balanced my work needs. In my ministerial career I always had many more responsibilities in addition to the music. I looked after hospitalized folk, planned educational activities for groups of all ages, organized Sunday schools, trained teachers and leaders, encouraged youth workers, met with the staff of several congregations, supported the work of Senior ministers, directed residential summer camps, developed curriculum plans and wrote the resources, listened to people’s problems, handed out food to the needy, on and on. As an associate minister, I often administrated programs that were more related to other people’s ideas and visions rather than my own. The choir gave me a mid-week balance, for during rehearsals I could tell people to sit up, stand up, sit down, turn to page two, start singing at measure 36, modify their vowels, make lots of noise, sing softly, or completely shut up. Whatever needs I had to do things my way got satisfied during those mid-week rehearsals. I worked with the singers’ pitch, rhythm, sense of meter, phrasing, and general understanding of the music we performed. I elicited musicianship and artistic satisfaction from people who often didn’t have that much to offer. I sought always to make my singers better musicians. I helped them understand the needs of liturgy in a non-liturgical church. And I had fun. We had fun as artists together. Working with musical ensembles—whether made up of children, youth, adult, or seniors, whether signers or bell ringers, or the musical cast of a drama, or duets, trios, or quartets—brought me deep joy.

They also became my personal monitor. I had enjoyed a long, joyous, creative ministry in churches but knew it was time to quit when I started not wanting to go to my choir rehearsals, when I was no longer satisfied with those two or three in-tune measures or phrases, when I was no longer thrilled at the stumbling attempts of my earnest singers, when I was worn out rather than wafted on the wings of a dove. I continued working hard for a few months more, making music up to the last minute, then left.

I didn’t know what my life would be when I quit just before my fifty-first birthday, but I moved away from church music. I still like the sounds. I still can feel some kind of inspiration when hearing choral music, organ voluntaries, and massed choruses with orchestras. I still float along well turned phrases and salivate over delicious mellismas. I have the feelings; I just don’t need the work. Choirs still move me though now I rarely hear them perform. It’s the result of a change in life, but one I don’t regret. The choral spirit still abides in me, so much so that if this reading were the end of yet another choir rehearsal, we’d stand, sing an Amen, and go home.

Denver © 2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Where Do We Go from Here? by Pat Gourley

“Nothing new will be said here, nor have I any skill at composition. Therefore I do not imagine that I can benefit others. I have done this to perfume my own mind.”

Santideva; Bodhicaryavatara 1.2

I should really begin all my writings with this quote from Santideva, the 8th century Indian Buddhist monk, as a small way of reigning in my ego before putting pen to paper. I do though enjoy perfuming my own mind.

My first task in tackling this topic was to decide whom “we” is referring to. I suspect there was some group in mind by the person who suggested this phrase. I am going to take a bit of a leap here and define “we” as the LBGTQI etc. community.

I know it makes some folks skin crawl to here the word 'Queer' and I want to acknowledge that sensitivity but when it comes to 'perfuming' my mind I am quite lazy. The reclaiming of the word Queer, I think in the late 1980’s, in part by a group of often-younger AIDS activists was never perceived by me to be particularly offensive. It was an easy way to inclusively describe the many-headed beast that the community had evolved into particularly over the latter part of the 20th century.

And in this age of assimilation with major energy expended on marriage and military service, I find a bit of solace in the use of such a loaded reclaimed word. You really need to be member of the club to use it and get away with it even if it stirs a bit of dust especially if there are straight folks within earshot.

A significant part of queer-awakening at least since the mid-1800’s has been to define who “we” are and to come up with a suitable name for ourselves. This has been challenging and at times painful. Remember when The Center was started in the mid-1970’s the name was The Gay Community Center with ‘lesbian’ added a few years later and the B’s and T’s followed. Rather than add any more letters officially I vote for changing the name to The Queer Community Center of Colorado. I am not holding my breath for this change however.

Despite what seems like the mad rush toward respectability in the form of marriage equality and unfettered access to military service I am holding out hope that our intrinsic “otherness” will win out in the long run. Even for those who have opted for the marriage route after a couple of tours of duty in one of America’s many war fronts I think their queerness will bring unique and perhaps even evolutionary aspects to these petrified institutions. Our innate differences as queer people will win out. I doubt that many constructionist-leaning Queer Theorists are reading this but if they are I am sure their heads are exploding or perhaps more likely they are just dismissing my essentialist views with a snarky sarcastic sneer.

Since I am all about “perfuming” my own mind here I am inclined to approach this topic as more “where do I go from here”, since at the end of the day it seems to be all about me anyway. I have and am spending significant cushion time to overcome this ego driven view but there is still much work to do.

I will now make a pathetic attempt to cut myself some slack around my egocentric approach to life. I am a week away from turning sixty-seven years old and I have most likely been HIV positive since 1981, over half my life. I am here writing this in no small part due to the four different HIV meds I am on and that I take three of these antivirals twice a day. And then there are four other meds addressing the effects of the HIV meds and the fact that I have indulged in the standard toxic American diet for much of my 67 years.

Even though I feel quite well and for most of my waking hours having HIV is never on my mind I am forced to look it in the face twice every day when I take my meds. I am struck often by the fact that I am absolutely tethered to these pills and if I quit them I will succumb to my HIV. But then many folks in our society today are on meds that are required to keep them going. Certainly in part the answer to ‘where am I going’ absolutely involves getting older. And that has inevitable consequences.

So in an attempt to stay off my own pity-pot I really try to focus on the following bit of advice that was recently posted on that endless source of pop-cultural wisdom , Facebook: “Don’t regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many”. Author Unknown.

© January 2016

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

Save Me from the Believers, by Nicholas

I do not believe in believing. I don’t know what I believe in and I don’t care what you believe in. I do believe, however, that believing leads to an addling of the brain. We are not supposed to believe. We are supposed to learn, as in, look at evidence and make conclusions. I prefer to be reality based. Belief can be and is usually manufactured from thin air. And like thin air, belief is prone to flimsy shifts in the wind.

Belief is, to me, but one step away from superstition and prejudice, two of its most common components. Belief motivates people—usually to do something awful. People of Salem, Massachusetts believed in witches and a dozen women died for it. The newest attack on LGBT rights is that our freedom violates somebody’s religious beliefs which they believe should be forced on everybody else.

We’ve all heard it on the nightly news. You get a one-minute story on some horrific event like a man is suspected of abusing his children and right away, the TV anchors want to know what you believe. Let us know what you think, they say. Is he guilty?

My belief however flimsily arrived at or sincerely held is irrelevant and not really even worth considering. If I am ever to judge this man, I will be on a jury that has been presented with the full facts of the case for our consideration. Otherwise, I am not really entitled to an opinion and any opinion I give is worthless. I can believe all I want, but, so what?

Believing is manipulated and it is so very manipulable. Belief easily descends into hysteria. Muslims in New York want to open a religious center near the World Trade Center site and suddenly we are talking about the global radical Islamist conspiracy to desecrate sacred sites in the homeland. I didn’t know we had sacred sites and if we do, isn’t it WalMart.

© 11 January 2016

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Hospitality, by Lewis

Hospitality is one of the great lessons of the life of Jesus. But human beings have been exhibiting its essential nature for as long, I suspect, as they have walked this planet. It is told in the lesson of the Good Samaritan who stopped to minister to a man, likely a Jew, who had been beaten and robbed on the road to Jericho. It was the impetus for the Hippocratic and Boy Scout Oaths. It is the inevitable consequence of the Golden Rule--to treat others as you would like them to treat you--and, according to Wikipedia, is found in some form in almost every religion and ethical tradition.

In today's troubled world, hospitality seems to be in short supply, for example, among the Israelis and Palestinians, Shia and Sunni Muslims, the Muslim Brotherhood and secular Egyptians, Tea Partiers and moderate Republicans, Tea Partiers and Democrats, Cheese Heads and Vikings, those who cling to guns and those who cling to their loved-ones to protect them from guns, those who like sushi and those who like cheeseburgers, those who believe a landlord should be able to evict a destitute tenant into hostile streets but a woman should be forced to carry an unwanted child to term and those who believe that a rapist's semen or a failed condom is not a down payment on a nine-month lease on a woman's body.

Yes, the world needs all the hospitality it can get right now. That' s one thing I like about the Sharing Our Stories group--we treat each other like we would rather be here than anywhere else at this time and we show it in ways that are kind and liberally-minded. This is the kind of safe atmosphere that encourages creativity in us all. And what is hospitality if not the nurturing of the human spirit in all its variety?

[Footnote: Initially, I could think of very little to write about the subject of "hospitality". I was about to write just a brief sentence or two about that subject and then launch into an essay on "Hospital Fatalities", about which I am much more passionate. But I thought that might be type-casting me a bit so I deferred.]

© 29 July 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Hair, by Gillian

Looking back on it, I had rather nice hair when I was young, in a typically English way; golden-brown with a few coppery highlights. But I didn't appreciate it one whit at the time. My mother created two braids for me every morning until she began school teaching again, at which time she announced it had become my responsibility. I was somewhere in the early grades at Elementary School so I guess I was six, maybe seven. Braids were the only thing I knew, so I continued them. Unfortunately, my pudgy little arms were not sufficiently flexible, not were my young fingers skilled enough, to create the braids at the back of my head. Instead, I pulled half of the loose hair forward over each shoulder and braided it from the front, resulting in braids which refused to hang down my back. No matter how often I shoved them back, they persistently sprang forward to flop down my chest. They were almost waist-length and seemed constantly to inhibit the important things in life such as lessons or games. The morning one of them dunked itself in my toast and honey was the last straw.

So I cut them off.
Inexpertly.
Unevenly.
With old, blunt, rusty, scissors.
The second I had done it, I panicked.
What had I done?
Why oh why had I done it?

I looked about me as I scooped my severed braids up from where they languished on the kitchen floor. Even as I gazed hopefully about for somewhere to hide them, as young as I was, an inescapable logic told me that there was absolutely no possibility that no-one would notice my lack of them.

My mother came into the kitchen. She stared at me, then at the lifeless braids hanging from my little fists. She remained silent, uttering not even a grunt or a sigh. She propelled me into the living room, gently took the braids from me and tossed them casually onto the open fire. I stared, in equal silence, as the hair, my hair, curled and crackled and sparked, turned rapidly black, and gave off a sickening odor. And it was gone.

I risked a sideways peak at my mother, who resumed her place in the old armchair: picked up her book, sipped her tea. I squinted at Dad, in the other armchair, reading a car magazine and sipping his tea. He was on an afternoon tea-break from chopping wood. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the grandfather clock standing on duty in its corner and the contented purr of the cat re-settling herself on Mum's knee. I stood on the hearth, shuffling my feet, waiting for whatever was going to happen, to happen.

Dad put his magazine and tea cup down on the little table beside his chair, looked up at me and gave a solemn wink.

'Get your coat on,' was all he said.

We walked, my hand in his, across the fields through a cold drizzle, to the neighboring farm where we immediately saw and heard the farmer, in his barn, attempting some work on the tractor engine. He was addressing it with a string of very bad words, which he swallowed back down his throat the moment he saw me.

' 'Ow do' he greeted us genially, adding to my dad, as he jerked his head towards the engine, 'Bloody lucky you're 'ere.'

I never heard either of my parents even say bloody, but it was inoffensive enough to Mr. Llewellyn that he let it slip right through his filtering system.

'Ay,' my dad replied, 'Lucky you're 'ere an' all.'

By way of explanation he pirouetted me around.

'Bloody 'ell!' was the response as Mr. Llewellyn grinned at me, a very rare event, displaying many gaps in his jagged brown teeth. He shoved his greasy flat cap to the back of his head.

'Dog been chewing at yer 'air?'

He waved me to a filthy old bench outside the barn and reached for an equally filthy leather bag up on a shelf.

For the first time since I'd picked up those scissors, I relaxed. This was familiar territory. I knew what to expect. More or less on a monthly basis my dad came to the farm to have what little hair he had left cut by Mr. Llewellyn with his sheep shears. Money never changed hands. Dad was terrific with engines, so he worked on the tractor engine in return. I sometimes went along and communed with various animals while the shears took a swift swipe just above my father's scalp. So I felt no trepidation as the shears approached. I knew they were kept viciously sharp, but I had never seen my dad's head receive as much as a tiny nick. In no time we were done. No mirror to be held up so that I could offer my approval, simply a nod and a grin from Dad. I sat and waited for a few minutes while the two men grunted at each other and pointed to things like wires and spark plugs, and soon we were greeted by the welcome, if not too promising for the longterm, cough and splutter of the ancient tractor.

My mother reasserted control over my hair, cutting it herself with my dad's cut-throat razor, still his preferred shaving implement but he apparently had no objection to sharing. The erstwhile braids were not mentioned again. Many years later, I asked Mom why she had reacted so strangely; so silently.

'I think I was in shock,' she replied. "It wasn't that it was such a terrible thing. Just such a surprise. I had no idea. Why had you never told me you hated your braids?'

Because, I wanted to say, because .... because, Mum, we weren't that kind of family. We never talked about anything deeper than the weather or the next meal.

But I said nothing. What was the point? A relationship is not too likely to change much after decades of entrenchment.

If I had been asked, while my parents were still alive, who I was closer to, I would unhesitatingly have said my mother. As an only child with few other kids nearby to play with, I spent a lot of time with Mom. I have written often enough before about our strangely flawed relationship, but nevertheless we got on well. She was a fun person to be with. She loved to play games and she loved to laugh.

My dad was quiet, never using more than the minimum amount of words necessary, and it took looking back from a considerable distance for me to see how his actions spoke for him, loud and clear.

Now they are both gone, I feel myself growing ever closer to my father. If asked, now, to whom I feel closest, I would definitely say my dad. It surprises me, this change of heart, but perhaps it's simply a clearer understanding I've gained over the years of both Mum and Dad, and my relationship with them.

Ah well! Death, just like life, is full of surprises.


© January 2016

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

Bumper Stickers, by Gail Klock

“Nobody knows I’m a Lesbian.”

“Don’t judge me based on your ignorance.”

“Focus on your own damn family.”

I’ve never placed a bumper sticker on my car, probably because I’ve been afraid to. I am not a person that engages well in confrontation and the type of bumper stickers I would place on my car would be confrontational. I guess it’s about paranoia, but when I get involved in an accident while driving, I want to know it’s an accident. If I had a bumper sticker on my car I would have thought the idiot that rear ended me, pushing my car 100 feet across traffic, and then fled the scene might have done it intentionally due to my bumper sticker. I’m not sure I would have turned my car around and followed the guy until he pulled over if I had placed my “confrontational” bumper sticker on my car. I probably would have continued on my way and paid for the damage myself to avoid the possible road rage or hate crime that might take place.

I like bumper stickers that make me think, even if they enrage me at the time. For example when I read bumper stickers like, “Women for Mitt Romney,” I have engaging conversations with myself trying to figure out how this can even be possible.

Maybe members from SAGE should partner up with the youth in Rainbow Alley; we could use bumper stickers as philosophical guides. I would like to share with GLBT youth the wisdom I have gained from years of experience, more or less the advice I would like to have received when I was a budding Lesbian and felt so alone and out of sync with the world. The first guide I would share would be, “If you hold onto your dreams too tight you’ll crush their tiny little ribs.” In keeping with aspirations I would add, “If your dreams don’t scare you a little they’re not big enough.”

I think of these dreams in terms of personal relationships, not career goals. I would have loved receiving input on what a gay relationship could look like- what were the possible dreams. The ultimate relationship dream, in my opinion, is marriage, or the ideals that marriage implies; commitment, caring, loving, etc. Now that marriage is a legal possibility will it lend structure to gay relationships? I would suggest to young lesbians that the 2nd date rent a U-Haul strategy does not fit within the big dream concept. Perhaps the big dreams should lead to more dating and possibly engagements? Maybe it will lead to fewer mismatched relationships that are based more on fear and/or passion.

“Be yourself, imitation is suicide.” This speaks to me of coming out of the closet. It speaks of Gay Pride Parades and activities when GLBT individuals can begin to feel a sense of pride in who they are, yes to face our heterosexual friends and enemies and proudly think to ourselves, “I’m sorry you don’t get to be me, because it is a real privilege.” To imitate someone else, either through sexuality or other unique parts of your own being is suicide, it is a killing off of that which makes each person unique and special.

I recently saw the movie, “The Imitation Game.” I can’t begin to put into words how much this movie affected me, how much I related to it. It was so true to what I’ve witnessed in the world, the belittling of people who are different, tearing them down and making them feel worthless. I saw it in my teaching daily and in my home life with my oldest brother who was very intelligent, and not so socially savvy. I have contemplated several times since seeing this movie what Alan Turing endured as a youth, and what he contributed to the world. At the conclusion of the movie it speaks of how many lives he probably saved, which moved me to tears. Perhaps he did more than save the lives of millions; perhaps he changed the course of the world. What if Germany had won and Nazism had prevailed? I’m thankful Turing remained true to himself in spite of the torture he experienced and I’m sad beyond belief that it cost him his life.

“Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.” I’ve always believed in this piece of wisdom, and often my voice shook as I spoke. I also carried it out in my teaching. I emphasized that all voices were of value, that the class would be more meaningful if we heard the ideas of all. I had a very shy young woman in a class I taught at Springfield College. She didn’t raise her hand to contribute until midway through the course. Upon conclusion of her shaky comment the entire class spontaneously applauded her efforts. It was one of the moments of my teaching career which made me happiest.

“Don’t die wondering.” As a coach I often preached against the “could haves”, “should haves”, and would haves”. The idea was to leave nothing on the court, to prepare and play each moment at your best. If this was accomplished you had succeeded. The score of the game didn’t matter as much as overcoming the fear of failure and playing your heart out. I don’t want to die wondering if I could have accomplished all I wanted to in life. I had a reoccurring dream many years ago which has stayed with me. These dreams always involved strategies of reuniting with my brother in heaven. I was in line at the pearly gates talking with strangers, begging, cajoling, and carrying out a number of acts unnatural and uncomfortable to me in order to get ahead in line, because I wanted to be with Karl again as soon as possible. A few years back I had another dream. I was in a rugged terrain with my brother and I had the opportunity to stay with him. But to accomplish this feat I had to jump over a deep and wide ravine. Karl took off with ease and bounded over the ravine. I was too afraid to try. The trauma of the dream woke me from a dead sleep. I knew when thinking about it, it represented my desire to let go of my past, to have faith in the future in order to accomplish what I want today in life. It is extremely hard to let go of the past with traumatic events, to move on from the strategies that provided stability to you as a child but no longer work as an adult, to those which are untried- to leap across the ravine. I’d rather die leaping than wondering!

© 12 November 2015

About the Author

I grew up in Pueblo, CO with my two brothers and parents. Upon completion of high school I attended Colorado State University majoring in Physical Education. My first teaching job was at a high school in Madison, Wisconsin. After three years of teaching I moved to North Carolina to attend graduate school at UNC-Greensboro. After obtaining my MSPE I coached basketball, volleyball, and softball at the college level starting with Wake Forest University and moving on to Springfield College, Brown University, and Colorado School of Mines.

While coaching at Mines my long term partner and I had two daughters through artificial insemination. Due to the time away from home required by coaching I resigned from this position and got my elementary education certification. I taught in the gifted/talented program in Jefferson County Schools for ten years. As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.
As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.

Acceptance, by Carol White

Here is the profound question for me: “How do we get to Acceptance?” And by that I mean acceptance of everything, just as it is.

Having read many spiritual books and pursued spiritual quests through various churches and practices and groups, I can say that Acceptance is touted as a goal in most of those endeavors, whether it be Buddhist, New Age, Christian, Integral, or Unitarian studies.

How in the world, in the face of all the news headlines and analysis, in the face of war and terrorism and mass murders, and in the face of everyday problems relating to health or relationships or finances or big weather events, can I ever accept all of that within myself? How, in the face of poverty and loneliness and depression and global climate change and mental illness and diseases and rape and murder and death and man’s inhumanity to man, can I ever get to Acceptance?

What is our goal here? Peace of mind and inner peace.

One of the first things that comes to mind in pondering this big question is a song that I ran across about 33 years ago on a cassette tape put out by Ken Keyes that went like this: “That’s the way it is, by golly, that’s the way it is.”

Perhaps this is the first step to Acceptance, realizing that things are the way they are, and it won’t help anything or anyone for me to be upset or angry or depressed or physically ill over thinking about all of the bad things in the world. It only hurts me.

Does that mean that I don’t care or that I shouldn’t care? Absolutely not. In a huge way it’s a paradox. It requires that I allow my heart to be broken by all of the injustices in the world, and at the same time I accept the fact that injustices are happening. It means that while I strive to find inner peace by acceptance, I still, at the same time, want to make the world a better place.

I believe that this is a good time to consider the serenity prayer that Randy mentioned last time:

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

What a profound prayer that is.

I’m not trying to be a Pollyanna here. I am definitely not saying that if you think only good and positive thoughts that you will have good health and riches and wonderful relationships, and that all of the world’s problems will go away. Although positive thinking has its benefits, that is not the answer in our quest for serenity.

We must deal with the light and the shadow, with the good and the bad, with all of the wonderful people and things in the world and the evil that does exist. And the first step in dealing with it is acceptance of things the way they are.

When I was dealing with a particularly difficult health issue, I remember playing a song by Paul McCartney over and over again in my head: “Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.”

I think that for me, maybe it can begin with just a moment. For only one minute I’m going to allow everything to be exactly as it is and everyone to be just exactly as they are. I’m going to relax and release my judgment of everything and everyone and let it be. For just a few seconds I will try to relax my body and my mind so that the knot in my stomach can melt and I no longer feel the weight of the world on my shoulders or the anger and fear and concern take over my stomach and turn it into knots.

If I can do it for a moment, perhaps I can do it for two minutes, and maybe even more. Can you even imagine allowing all of your friends to be exactly who they are without wanting to change anything about them? It would be an internal relief, I think, not to want anyone to change anything.

I am remembering three words, each starting with an “A”, that I picked up from my spiritual studies: Acceptance, Allowing, and Awareness. Maybe even Awakening, if we should be so lucky as to reach that point someday.

But first, Acceptance and Allowing, which for a brief time can take me to a sense of peace and calm. And from this place of quiet mind is the place where I can start to reach out and think, “What can I do in my own little corner of the world to make things better?”

© 21 December 2015

About the Author

I was born in Louisiana in 1939, went to Southern Methodist University in Dallas from 1957 through 1963, with majors in sacred music and choral conducting, was a minister of music for a large Methodist church in Houston for four years, and was fired for being gay in 1967. After five years of searching, I settled in Denver and spent 30 years here as a freelance court reporter. From 1980 forward I have been involved with PFLAG Denver, and started and conducted four GLBT choruses: the PFLAG Festival Chorus, the Denver Women’s Chorus, the Celebration ’90 Festival Chorus for the Gay Games in Vancouver, and Harmony. I am enjoying my 11-year retirement with my life partner of 32 years, Judith Nelson, riding our bikes, going to concerts, and writing stories for the great SAGE group.