When I Identified, by Phillip Hoyle

In college I was studying to be a minister and a musician. I had been in preparation for both for years in a family deeply involved in the church’s work of education, administration, eldership, and music. In this last category Dad was the church organist and all of us kids sang in church and school choirs. In undergraduate years I studied Bible and theology and eventually added a major in sacred music. Choral and vocal music were my great passion. I also liked teaching although not preaching.

Identifying just where I would work in the church showed me how much I treasured the music and educational ministries. I worked hard in these areas for years directing choirs, developing music libraries, writing curriculum resources, organizing special events, supporting time-worn groups like Sunday School, teacher training, Bible studies, and the like. I organized drama programs, directed musicals, planned special services and events, especially around holidays. I excelled in and enjoyed such work. I also did pastoral work, for example, making hospital calls, visits to care homes, marrying couples, burying the dead, memorializing people who figured large in the congregation or completely unknown to me. I preached but never identified as a preacher.

In seminary I learned that the Master of Ministry degree was the last surviving graduate professional degree designated as ‘generalist’. Given my experiences in several churches before I attended seminary, that idea seemed an apt description. While I liked the wide variety of work it demanded, I found myself more and more drawn to the artistic parts of events. If a design called for crafts, my goal was to make them art projects with freedom. I thought that this was the best way to communicate with children something lasting and religious. I wanted the kids to learn things they couldn’t forget and learn skills as well as information. So I planned art projects and eventually wanted to do that work myself beginning with collage, graduating to mixed media, drawing, and eventually painting. I attended art workshops. I enjoyed art for myself as well as for my church related work.

In Albuquerque, Cecelia Daniels, a woman in the congregation, gave me a book telling me she wanted to teach it with me. I read the book but didn’t really like Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way with its workshop approach and New Age and sometimes magical idea. I knew that Cecelia had years of training in group process and sensitivity training. I wanted to learn from her more than I wanted to teach. The thirteen weeks of the course somewhat changed my self-understanding. It also facilitated changes in other participants. Cameron’s Artistic Recovery spoke to me. While I hated the affirmations Cameron insisted I use daily, I wrote them anyway, even the one: “I, Phillip Hoyle, am a brilliant and prolific artist.” I forced myself to affirm that idea daily for many years always thinking: I’m not so sure about brilliant or prolific. (I still write it occasionally and still get emotionally stopped.) I know the problem is that I was a musician who didn’t really think of himself as an artist, a writer who didn’t think of himself as an artist. I realized I was always an artist mustered the courage to identify myself as one.

Identification as an artist was just as much a challenge to me as identifying myself as bisexual.

OH, this story was about WHEN.

I realized I was in love with a man when I was 30 years old. That was 40 years ago. I realized I was an artist when I was around 40 years old. Of course there were hints years before related to both identities. I wonder: is coming out or coming in or coming to really all that difficult? I suspect so, AND I suspect there are more identities to be adopted in the years to come. I just hope I’ll be sentient enough, brash enough, and happy enough to make them.

© 25 June 2018

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

Keyhole, by Phillip Hoyle

These days I sometimes have trouble fitting the key into the keyhole. Luckily, since retirement, I carry only one rather ordinary key. The problem is not with our front door lock. No, it’s the specialized keys that cause me the greatest challenge, like those on the free lockers at the Denver Art Museum. The funny key doesn’t want to go in either way I try, upside or down. I’m sure it’s due to my rather clumsy ways and inaccurate perception of angles. But I persist and do eventually get the key in, retrieve my backpack and the refunded quarter as well.

But another meaning of keyhole intrigues me. I recall as a child hoping to peek through a keyhole and see something unusual. Could one solve a mystery with just one peek? I looked but never saw anything interesting. If I knew the room already, the view was too focused. If I didn’t know it, I had no idea what I was looking at. But these were mostly childhood games of imagination.

My fascination with exotic places, one fed by my constant reading, took me around the world in my mind, introduced me to new cultures, customs, and costumes. Of course such views were limited to keyhole glimpses. I wanted more. I kept reading. I had a few other experiences living in an army town, where I appreciated my schoolmates, quite a few who came from or had lived in other countries, ones who sometimes looked and dressed differently. I liked that; I liked them. I scoured National Geographic magazines whenever they were available. I found myself engaged rather than put off by difference.

But was I only deluded? Was I making keyhole peeks to see only what I thought was there? I’m sure in many ways the answer is yes. That seems to be the way things are. But I kept looking, reading, and saying ‘hi’ to the unusual. I liked life in Kansas but still kept looking around through keyholes and kept scanning the horizon.

Here there is a larger story. By here I mean in this very room where LGBTQA folk tell their stories. Telling Your Story gatherings provide keyhole glimpses into other people’s perspectives and lives. Along with the public libraries and local museums, I count our weekly storytelling my greatest Denver life gift. I like providing these glimpses, but mostly I love hearing them, each one an invitation to see a wider world.

Recently I sent one of the stories I had told this group to the writing critique group I am a part of. The varied responses surprised me. Of course, that group’s purpose is to figure out what the piece is about, advise the writer what the reader found effective, and to share questions raised by the story or some detail in it—in that order. I was surprised to find that questions about my actions (as well as my writing) came in the opening statements. Somehow my behaviors in midlife seemed so bad they had to be confronted from the beginning. I’ll not go into the content of that here, but I thought how different that was compared with this SAGE group’s reactions when I first read the story. The discussion in the critique group was lively. In it one participant suggested that perhaps her reaction came from not knowing how to write to an LGBT audience. As the talk continued, another exasperated person said, “I feel like I’ve become the Church Lady.”

I became acutely aware how different were the responses of the two groups. In saying these things I’m not critical of my critique group’s insights or of their rather visceral reactions. Of course, I have done things that have not been good. I just thought moral issues were differentiated from writing issues and separated from them. Maybe what they saw through the keyhole of that story surprised them. Of course I forgive them. They’re nice people and one of them is certainly as queer as I am.

I do believe that assumptions get in the way for some readers and listeners when the experiences described seem too different. Prejudice has a lot to do with that as does the keyhole effect of not seeing the larger picture. Glimpses can give only micro views.

But then I remember I’ve always liked the peculiar, had long hoped someday to say with Dorothy, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

© 16 July 2018

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

Eye of the Storm, by Phillip Hoyle

I must have entered into the relationship through the eye of the storm. Our connection was pacific, even inspiring at the beginning, but somehow the eye passed and I found myself caught up in a hurricane of problems.

The calm beauty of our first nights together featured a sexual exploration like I had never before experienced, the two of us touching, responding, initiating, enjoying a reciprocal openness and delight. That second morning when I had to leave early—well 3:00 a.m.—to feed my visiting family, he again said, in a childlike voice, “Don’t go.”

“I have to go, but the kids leave today. I’ll meet you after work; we’ll have the whole night together. I’ll fix you breakfast.”

“I want to fix you breakfast,” he insisted.

That third night turned out like I’d hoped, and we basked in one another’s presence, held onto each other, actually slept in his bed. And then I was introduced to his skill as a cook, that breakfast the first of many meals we shared in following months.

But within a few weeks I knew he was HIV positive, was in deep legal trouble facing a third degree sexual assault charge, had twice tried to kill himself, had serious financial problems, was just newly out to his parents, was getting medical attention through Denver Health, had recently been in the hospital, had decided he wanted to stay well, and wanted me to move in with him right away. I also found out he was college educated, creative, funny, sweet, and made my heart pound extra fast whenever he showed up—always late. I was hopelessly in love with this guy in a way I had never experienced before. He said he was in love with me as well.

The storm brought many trips to the hospital and clinic for tests, imaging appointments, surgical procedures, examinations of new symptoms, introductions of new medications, and more. Fortunately the intensity of these problems was matched by the intensity of our enthusiasm for one another. Our days provided new revelations of our pasts, experiments of intimacy, delight in giving ourselves to each other through conversation, touch, laughter, dance, and food. Our storm was not a fight but rather an accommodation to delights that we hoped would have a long future. But as the weeks went on the specter of failure kept trying to get through the door that had been left ajar in spite of our love. We watched the building intensity of the storm, the complications of treatments, the appearance of symptom after symptom, the confusion of diagnoses. We were both wearing down, not in our love or commitment, but in our imagination of a future. And there were other challenges: work, exhaustion, and fear. Fear was my largest challenge. I had lost too many people from my life in the prior six years: parents, my marriage, a good friend, and the too-recent death of another lover. My grief over that loss had not sufficiently subsided. Still I was not thinking of running away. We were tight Rafael and I. But I wished I weren’t going through all this again, especially when I had never had such feelings of love with another human being.

My lover’s parents lived in Mexico. They had little English; I had little Spanish. I had wanted to meet them before another hospitalization. That didn’t happen. I met them as my lover’s condition complicated, as his death neared. The storm ended then, at least the main part of it. Yet a storm lingers in me. Fifteen years later it still roars on occasion.

The ancient Etruscans believed that once grief visits it never goes away. I have many joys, and in my old age can list grief after grief. Now I work hard to welcome grief as a friend, even when my losses do not feel particularly friendly. I keep looking for the eyes in new storms I encounter and appreciate the ways their calm equips me to live with acceptance and supports my overall joy in life.

© 9 July 2018

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

The Truth Is, by Phillip Hoyle

Sometimes we actually search for the truth. Sometimes we think we have found it. Sometimes we are sure it is eluding us. Sometimes we may confess we know nothing of the truth.

I’m sure I went to college to find out the truth. After working a few years, I went on to graduate school because I needed a change in my career. I went on to graduate seminary because in graduate school I discovered I’d rather work in churches than teach in a college. Churches provided greater opportunity for variety. That’s the truth; I valued variety over depth. Still, I got to teach, to study, to use professional time for research, to write, to make music, to encourage people. I was not interested to present any capital T Truth in sermons that people would try hard to believe. Rather, I sought to challenge people in their own best interest to think, to consider, and to commit themselves to a way of life guided by the wisdom of the ages as understood through a modern take on the worlds of reality and belief. To me that seemed close enough to the truth.

My take on ethics and morality was somehow personal and took into view the wisdom of my teachers beginning with the Bible, a positive view of the human body, an appreciation of diversity in human experience and values, a commitment to democracy, and a fascination with new ideas and consequences. The truth is that my commitments suited my ministry but did not make me an especially successful minister. Luckily, I got to work in larger congregations where I could pursue my greater interests.

So now some non-truth sermonic thoughts:

The Bible has no word for “The Truth.” It does like when people are “true”, but that has to do with how they act toward other people, not their adherence to some kind of doctrine. There are two important concepts, though, that have to be accounted for. First is a metaphor, “the word of God”, second an expression, “the apostolic tradition”. The word of God is the common religious territory of Jewish and Christian concern. It was spoken and eventually written. The writings were in Hebrew (gathered over several hundred years), Koine Greek (telling stories and advice that originated in Aramaic of the first century Common Era) and hopefully all retranslated into many newer languages by reliable witnesses. Christianity, in response to the demands of the non-Christian Emperor Constantine had to agree on their beliefs so they could be certified by the Roman Empire. Writing a creed had some benefit; it stopped some of the persecution from the outside. Sadly it also created the ability for Christians to begin persecuting one another over doctrinal matters, a practice that has not subsided since the third century Common Era. In all, orthodoxy has become a sad song for the church to sing. All the beautiful chants and motets, cantatas and oratorios, organs in chapels, churches, and cathedrals, all the sacred classical and popular instruments of Christians across the world over cannot create enough beauty to atone for the evil Christians have wreaked upon themselves and too often upon the rest of the world. And that’s the truth, but not the only truth.

Of course religions also create a lot of love, benevolence, and community as their members emulate the loving acts of the divine, when they live into the spirit rather than the law of their order. That also is the truth in the view of this sometime preacher. I choose to operate these days as a Christian, no matter what any other Christian may think of my life, behaviors, and beliefs. I chose to follow the simple-to-say although difficult-to-live ethic of Jesus, my religious teacher, who said: “Act toward others as you would have them act toward you. Love your enemies. Do good to those who would despitefully use you. Turn the other cheek. Forgive as you would like to be forgiven. As you have acted towards the simplest, neediest, helpless, unimportant, or despicable people, you have done it to me.” This kind of dynamism could change the world, but so far it has not done so. Few enough have even tried to follow such wisdom. And that’s the truth.

And this is the end of my little preach. Amen.

© 23 April 2018

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

The Truth Is, by Phillip Hoyle

Sometimes we actually search for the truth. Sometimes we think we have found it. Sometimes we are sure it is eluding us. Sometimes we may confess we know nothing of the truth.

I’m sure I went to college to find out the truth. After working a few years, I went on to graduate school because I needed a change in my career. I went on to graduate seminary because in graduate school I discovered I’d rather work in churches than teach in a college. Churches provided greater opportunity for variety. That’s the truth; I valued variety over depth. Still, I got to teach, to study, to use professional time for research, to write, to make music, to encourage people. I was not interested to present any capital T Truth in sermons that people would try hard to believe. Rather, I sought to challenge people in their own best interest to think, to consider, and to commit themselves to a way of life guided by the wisdom of the ages as understood through a modern take on the worlds of reality and belief. To me that seemed close enough to the truth.

My take on ethics and morality was somehow personal and took into view the wisdom of my teachers beginning with the Bible, a positive view of the human body, an appreciation of diversity in human experience and values, a commitment to democracy, and a fascination with new ideas and consequences. The truth is that my commitments suited my ministry but did not make me an especially successful minister. Luckily, I got to work in larger congregations where I could pursue my greater interests.

So now some non-truth sermonic thoughts:

The Bible has no word for “The Truth.” It does like when people are “true”, but that has to do with how they act toward other people, not their adherence to some kind of doctrine. There are two important concepts, though, that have to be accounted for. First is a metaphor, “the word of God”, second an expression, “the apostolic tradition”. The word of God is the common religious territory of Jewish and Christian concern. It was spoken and eventually written. The writings were in Hebrew (gathered over several hundred years), Koine Greek (telling stories and advice that originated in Aramaic of the first century Common Era) and hopefully all retranslated into many newer languages by reliable witnesses. Christianity, in response to the demands of the non-Christian Emperor Constantine had to agree on their beliefs so they could be certified by the Roman Empire. Writing a creed had some benefit; it stopped some of the persecution from the outside. Sadly it also created the ability for Christians to begin persecuting one another over doctrinal matters, a practice that has not subsided since the third century Common Era. In all, orthodoxy has become a sad song for the church to sing. All the beautiful chants and motets, cantatas and oratorios, organs in chapels, churches, and cathedrals, all the sacred classical and popular instruments of Christians across the world over cannot create enough beauty to atone for the evil Christians have wreaked upon themselves and too often upon the rest of the world. And that’s the truth, but not the only truth.

Of course religions also create a lot of love, benevolence, and community as their members emulate the loving acts of the divine, when they live into the spirit rather than the law of their order. That also is the truth in the view of this sometime preacher. I choose to operate these days as a Christian, no matter what any other Christian may think of my life, behaviors, and beliefs. I chose to follow the simple-to-say although difficult-to-live ethic of Jesus, my religious teacher, who said: “Act toward others as you would have them act toward you. Love your enemies. Do good to those who would despitefully use you. Turn the other cheek. Forgive as you would like to be forgiven. As you have acted towards the simplest, neediest, helpless, unimportant, or despicable people, you have done it to me.” This kind of dynamism could change the world, but so far it has not done so. Few enough have even tried to follow such wisdom. And that’s the truth.

And this is the end of my little preach. Amen.

© 23 April 2018

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

You Don't Want to Go There, by Phillip Hoyle

Believe me. I’m wary of “You don’t want to go there,” something that always sounds like unsought advice. It doesn’t take me seriously enough. But there are situations when the warning should be taken seriously. Just what kind of adventure do you think you successfully can confront? What kind invites you? What danger stimulates your imagination?

Some years ago I read a book that intrigued me, The Brothers Bishop, by Bart Yates (Kensington Press, 2005). I was interested to read about the lives of brothers since I had four sisters and no brothers. Here’s something that got my attention, a kind of “You don’t want to go there” incident. Tommy and Nathan the brothers had a rough upbringing. Tommy was the golden child, Nathan the control freak. Some years later Tommy returns for a summer break at the family cabin. I wondered why did Tommy dove into the ocean at a dangerous spot without his brother Nathan trying to stop him. There had been an argument, a warning, and a “no.” But no fight, no restraint. I reasoned perhaps Tommy had never been restrained. Perhaps his brother would have done the same thing and so wouldn’t interfere. Perhaps he believed Tommy, like usual, would luck out. In the scene, both brothers were deeply upset. Neither was thinking sanely. But should someone have said, “You don’t want to go there”? So much of the strength of the story comes from not having everything explained. The writer asked the reader to think.

I thought about how I didn’t have a brother story of my own, but we neighborhood boys often challenged each other to do daring, sometimes stupid feats. I did many of them but, like a real young queer in training, refused to jump off the neighbor’s garage roof. Not me. These childhood experiences did help me identify with the brothers in Yate’s book.

To some people, “You don’t want to go there,” seems an invitation to fun, even if the place will cause trouble. While I don’t like the phrase, I am not one of those adventuresome people except when “there” stands for a word choice or a concept that is under scrutiny or an argument. I’m always looking for the exception in almost every discussion and sometimes wonder if this un-recommended place will provide me the perspective I am searching for. I did that sort of thing in college and graduate school papers hoping that my writing might win the day even if the concepts did not.

I am not a daredevil but I go to places in my mind that seem quite bizarre. I have memories of intense experiences that many would have wasted their breath warning me against. Life does need daring. But just because someone says, “You don’t want to go there,” doesn’t mean you have to do it or have to pass it up.

© 30 April 2018

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

Gay Pride, by Phillip Hoyle

[Editor's note: This is from our past but published today to remind readers Pridefest Denver is this weekend! Hope to see you there.]

Kalo sat cross legged watching the Gay Pride Parade on East Colfax as GLBT floats, dancers, marchers, banners, balloons, and bands made their way from Cheesman Park to the Civic Center. It was his third Gay Pride Parade, the event his dad claimed to be the best parade he’d ever seen, combining the intimacy of small-town acquaintance with the glitz of big-city resources. This time Kalo was alone with his grandpa and a few of his grandpa’s friends. It was a new adventure, the capstone to a week of art experiences in the big city. While making plans for the week I, his grandfather, told his mother we could include the gay parade. She said that was just fine. Kalo agreed, so he and I joined the crowd to see the spectacle and to visit the festival on the mall below the Colorado State Capitol building.

Ten-year-old-cool-man Kalo experienced a day of surprises that he watched with fascination, yet without alarm. His perfect visual memory recorded events and impressions that he seemed to treasure. When Kalo returned to Missouri, he told his parents a number of the highlights—the diverse crowd, the gathering of punk-rock lesbians, the woman who wasn’t wearing a shirt, the body painting, the drag queens, and more—but when his dad asked about the parade, Kalo said it wasn’t as good as the other ones he had seen.

“Why?” his dad asked.

“There were too many beer ads.”

Beer was there—everywhere—in the parade, along the route, and at the festival; everywhere folk slurping, swigging, sloshing, and spilling beer. Whether or not the kid saw all the full and quickly emptying cups I don’t know. He did notice the floats with fifteen-foot-high pitchers, enthusiastic dancers, beer banners, and loud music.

When my son relayed his son’s evaluation, I laughed and said, “He’s right. One of the main sponsors of the event is CoorsLight! They had several floats.” Of course, Coors looks at Gay Pride as effective advertising. They know how many gay bars, if not individuals, purchase their products across the West and value the important gay market. So they cooperate in order to stimulate corporate profits. They can also claim a liberal and open attitude.

I’m not proud of the alliance although I have no real objection to beer drinking. Archaeology clearly demonstrates that humans were brewing and drinking it thousands of years ago in the Middle East. They probably did so everywhere farmers raised grain. They still do, both where they have little advertising and where the market is hyped with the latest media technology combining pro-suds and pro-sports.

Yuck. I just spilled beer on my leg. The kid was right, at least to my sensibility; the Parade does have too many beer ads and way too much beer. Perhaps I am just not that much into the Dionysian revels, being too much Apollonian to simply laugh it off and lap it up. Of course, I too can down my beer even if I prefer another brand. But I don’t feel any pride over it; nor do I feel shame, guilt, or degradation.

Pride and lack of pride stem from a popularized psychology of minority concerns. I’m not into the slogans, but I do value gay pride. By contrast, I know many gay men and lesbians and others who are pleased as punch to be who and what they are but who want no identification with the rollicking groups of dancers, drag queens, leathermen, Dykes on Bikes, and such. But they do benefit from the hard work at The GLBT Community Service Center of Colorado where the festivities are planned, from the public profile of PFLAG members who proudly march for their kids and friends in this public display, and from the quiet work of lobbies for human rights within American law. We can be proud of that. I am. I’m happy to be at the festival drinking a beer or two, eating a sandwich, looking at the booths, watching performances, hearing music, and laughing with friends and acquaintances at this annual family reunion of sorts. It’s nice. I like it.

I’m proud to be here because I know at base it’s political. This mass of proud folk has a voice. Legislators and administrators admit it although sometimes with great reluctance due to their fears of not being reelected. Businesses recognize it with big buck grins. I’m not proud of the shenanigans of some of the revelers here, but I recognize the power Gay Pride represents and its balancing effects in Denver, in Colorado, and in the good ol’ USA. Show your colors, Denver; wave your rainbow flag, Colorado. Be proud enough, USA, to change a few more policies, even some in the military.

Dance, shout, celebrate. Okay, drink a few; even a few too many if you must. Take the bus home or stay over at the close-by apartment of a friend on Capitol Hill. I like our Gay Pride Festival and just hope all of us proud gays will get home safely, meaning without STDs, DUIs, ODs, or DTs.

© Denver, 2010

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

How Religion Influenced My Sexual Identity, by Phillip Hoyle

Oh, I was religious. I was so religious that I attended Graduate Seminary pursuing a Master of Divinity degree in preparation for ordination into the ministry of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). I had decided to concentrate on aspects of religious education but found myself more intrigued with the social ethics professor’s offerings. The second course I took from Professor Richard A. Hoehn was called Morality. The first assignment was to write a short paper “How I Came to My Moral Concern.” I wrote something like this:

I am sure I did not conceive of my moral concern as a moral concern. I was reared in a church that assumed that moral concern flowed from religious concern. One sought to be religious; in so doing one would obviously be moral. Not that all believers were moral. More importantly I was taught to be moral at home where its teachings were part of the day to day activities.

Several family decisions of social location established moral contexts and assumptions that greatly affected my life. When my parents were planning to marry, they chose to build their house in the wrong part of town. It was perfect for them: a block from one set of parents, a block from the high school, three blocks from the church, four blocks from Hoyle’s IGA where dad worked, five blocks from elementary schools we kids attended. In the grocery store, all people were treated the same and the customer was, at least in most ways, always right. I grew up in a racially integrated neighborhood, attended integrated schools and classes from kindergarten through ninth grade in an army town where people spoke English, Spanish, German, and Japanese. I grew up knowing preachers and prostitutes, mechanics and madams, choristers and conmen, scholars and sleezes, farmers and fairies, musicians and musclemen, woodworkers and writers. For a kid growing up in a Kansas town of 20,000 population, my world was large. Whatever would become my sense of morality, it would always have to see this larger view of human connection.

Now to the topic of the day: My sexual identity is a part of my human identity, part of my moral identity, part of my Christian identity. I am a person, a nice person, and a religious person (at least in so far as I retain Christian thought in my overall views, Christian values in how I relate to the larger world). In summary, I am a Christian gay man who seeks the common good, (not just of my family, not just of my gay world, not just of my American world, but also of my place in the whole world). I reject any small view of homosexuality or bisexuality or of any of the sexual permutations of that larger term LBGTQAetc, or of queer. I am brother to all gay men and lesbian women and transgendered persons and poly-this-or poly-that folk, and to straight folk of all stripes whether I like or appreciate them or not or can understand anything any of them say. I’d appreciate their acceptance but don’t expect that to be given very freely. So I go on my way into the world and into my future, telling stories, making friends, tolerating, and hoping somehow to be tolerated. And I will continue telling my story as a part of all of you telling yours. I’ll keep smiling and, of course, hanging out with diverse convocations of others who care to get together in celebration of their differences.

Oh, I was religious; still am in an increasingly gay, queer way.

© June 4, 2018

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

Pet Peeves, by Phillip Hoyle

The home my wife and I made included kids and several pets. When the kids were out of elementary school there were three notable additions to the household: a terrapin that loved fresh strawberries, a white rat that doubled its size from nine inches to a nine inch body plus a nine inch tail, and a white rabbit I told my daughter and her boyfriend who gave it to her for Christmas, “How nice. It will be fully grown for Easter dinner.” Long before that rabbit ran away and procreated with the cottontails that lived in the woods, we had Marcie, a mostly black miniature French poodle one of the support staff at the church gave us. Myrna and I brought Marcie to our Wichita, Kansas, home to provide a pet for our children, then ages three and five.

Marcie was a hit. The kids adored her as did Myrna and I. She had an outgoing, enthusiastic personality and loved to play. We had a fenced-in back yard where she could run and where the kids could chase her or encourage her to chase them. She was a fine complement to the family. Myrna, though, was a little more conservative than the rest of us about the prospect of an animal in the house. She’d grown up on a farm where dogs and cats lived out of doors, helped bring in livestock, and controlled the ever-plentiful pest population. But when the weather was bad little Marcie wanted to be indoors. She was allowed to stay in the back entryway. We closed the door to the office, but the opening to the kitchen had no door. We were amused at how she’d come up to the threshold, wag her tail, and look like an under-privileged child. (Well, you know how pet owners so often attribute human qualities to pets.) She’d look happy. She started lying on the floor with her head resting on the threshold. So cute. A day or two later she put her front paws on the threshold and laid her head on them. She’d look sad. Then she rested the front half of her friendly little body on the threshold. So hard to resist. Then she begin sitting on the threshold looking adorable. I laughed at her antics, somewhat like an American version of the Arab story about the camel that during a storm first stuck its head into the tent and eventually, due to the Arab’s empathy over weather and his camel’s needs, took over the tent, the man sitting outside in the weather. Marcie entertained me with her astute training of us humans to be humane toward her, that tiny fluff ball of doggie wisdom and energy.

She hadn’t yet made it to the point of sharing our beds, but nearly so when we knew we were going to move to Texas. We took her to Colorado to give her to some of Myrna’s in-laws before we had to pack and leave. She moved in with a family that was even more responsive to her educational ways. Had she been a writer, she surely would have written to say, “See, I made a perfectly fine house dog.” She did seem to be in charge of the whole place in her new home.

We moved into a Texas apartment that allowed no pets. Still we visited Marcie over the years, saw her hair turn silver, and eventually heard of her death at the end of good life entertaining her owners. No peeves on my part, just fond memories of a few pets.

© 7 May 2018

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

Empathy, by Phillip Hoyle

As a college student I learned a distinction between sympathy and empathy. The contrast arises from the two different Greek words. It also is influenced by psychoanalytic theory and practice. In most discussions empathy is considered to be more finely tuned than sympathy. As a minister I was called upon to do many tasks including hospital and care-home calls on members of the church. I did this work thoughtfully and, I believe, with sympathy, and on good days a measure of empathy! People liked my visits and humor. We laughed and prayed together.

In the church work I was motivated as much by duty as by sympathy and empathy. And I was appropriately trained to be helpful with patients and shut-ins. Apparently I provided sufficient care in my communications and mainly in the fact I showed up at all. Perhaps that is the way of it when one has too many people to serve.

The caring emotion for me occurred most clearly when I was in a hospital room with someone having a difficult time. I also noticed how my empathy was amplified when I liked the person, occasions in which other emotions and feelings added to what I was experiencing, for instance, the time an elder woman introduced me to her nephew when she and I were the only persons present made me wonder at the drugs the medics had given her for pain and the need to suppress a feeling of humor at the situation. (I was fine; she got better.)

I visited a good looking single young man who had a stubborn bone infection. I know that a sexual attraction increased my sense of his pathos. It alerted me to how others might prize him emotionally and their sense of fear surrounding his illness. My empathy extended to his family and friends. He eventually did recover after receiving loads of highly potent antibiotics.

Several times I visited an elder woman, very worldly and professional, with a bright personality and deep determination to recover from a major stroke. One day several weeks into treatment she appeared to have made a turn for the better. I was excited on her behalf and expressed how much better she looked. She tempered my enthusiasm, though, by saying, “Phillip, I finally felt up to putting on my makeup.” We laughed together. I said, “You are getting better.”

My empathy was sincere in all these cases yet certainly amplified by other emotions. And in all these visits I was present because I was a minister from their church.

One inactive church member, a real sot, was driving home from the VFW on an icy night and being rather drunk, crashed his car into the west entry to the church building. I didn’t see the car but did see the damage to the steps and more. The Sr. Minister, Jack, wasn’t sure what to do. I volunteered, “I’ll go to the hospital and see how he is.” I’d never met the man and really didn’t know much about alcohol or alcoholism. I went in simply as a visiting minister. “So they sent you,” he said eyes twinkling.

“Yeah. It’s my day to make the rounds,” I said to underplay the situation. I asked how he was doing. He said, “Fine,” and seemed totally sober at that point, perhaps from the trauma. I realized he might even feel ill at ease and said, “You just rest and recover.” I shook his hand, smiled saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, and don’t worry about the church stuff.” I may have visited him later, I have no recollection. I never saw him outside the hospital, certainly not in church. His collision with the front steps was no conversion.

Was I sympathetic or empathetic? I have no real idea. Years later as a massage therapist I felt empathy with most of my clients in their pains and diseases but not always in their gripes and in some of their expressed needs. I did smile often and sometimes cried. I mostly tried to deliver an effective massage and must have done that pretty well. Many of my clients came to me for over fourteen years. Perhaps I was sufficiently empathetic. And my real hope is that I was never just plain old pathetic in these contacts.

© 27 November 2017

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

Springtime, by Phillip Hoyle

I knew the childhood chant, “April showers bring May flowers” long before I learned, “In Time of Silver Rain.” Langston Hughes wrote the poem; I learned it as a song when I was twenty-one and newly-married, an undergraduate studying theology and music. It seemed the springtime of my life. The Poet said it this way: "In time of silver rain/The earth/Puts forth new life again."

For years I was amazed that the church’s celebration of its main stories—the death and resurrection—were so attached to geography. I’m not thinking of Jerusalem in Israel but rather of Earth’s northern hemisphere. Easter symbols were springtime symbols. Lenten preparation took place at the time of lengthening days. Easter symbols sported flowers and eggs and sunrises. Of course, that made a kind of sense to me, but what would religious life in the southern hemisphere make of the shortening of days leading up to the same events preached and celebrated in the north? What effect would Easter in the fall have on its meaning down there? (I saw a postcard from Brazil of Santa Clause riding a surfboard.) The questions seemed real to me.

In springtime I now appreciate most the warming trend, the eventual return to wearing shorts and sandals, eating out of doors, and playing in longer daylight hours. I don’t look forward to the rebirth of weeds I’ll have to pull or Japanese beetles that will go to war in the vines, flowers and garden, or the squirrels that will eat the tomatoes and winter squash. But still there is a kind of positive magic in longer days, green grass, shade trees, even suntans.

Yesterday I was trimming back some bushes that had barely begun to leaf out and raking up leaves deposited in hard-to-manage corners of the yard. Jim has been at it for weeks. I don’t do much yard work but do have my specialties, and I’m back to work—applying sunscreen, getting out summer clothes, packing away the flannels, corduroys, and sweaters. It’s spring. Enjoy the great out of doors or just the backyard. Clean it up. Invite over the neighbors for grilled specialties. Talk over the fence where it’s not too high. Socialize. Bring things alive. Yes.

Yesterday I walked in my Birkenstock Arizona sandals, ones I had not worn for months. They began irritating my feet and I remembered I hadn’t worn them long last fall. They weren’t really broken in. Then my left knee—the better one—started screaming at me like the right one often does. I realized here in spring I am deteriorating. And we need more, much more silver rain and soon. I wondered if when my knee quits, will I get one of those electric buggies. (One friend called his the electric chair.) If so, I’m sure I’ll decorate it with flowers and carry my rainbow colored umbrella holding onto the hope for silver rain and new life.

© 16 April 2018

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

 

Finding Your Voice, by Phillip Hoyle

I started out a soprano. Then on Sunday nights at church I decided to harmonize as an alto and learned to read the line and sing the part. When my voice cracked too many times in Glee Club, I became a tenor. I stayed with that for many years. Since I was a choir director, I learned to sing all the parts, SAT and B. In the choirs we worked hard to increase everyone’s tone and range using techniques I learned from one of my voice teachers. If a section was weak on a Sunday morning, I could bolster them with my own screaming. It may have horrified some people. Who knows?

Finding my voice as a writer was another story, one that didn’t depend on timbre or range. In fact the discussion of that concept goes on. I developed a terse style for use in academic writing. I had to warm it up it for the church newsletter and did so with a little bit of success. When I accepted contracts for writing curriculum resources I got more at home with addressing volunteer teachers. The reading level for them was eighth or ninth grade. Writing for students of different ages was more fun and challenging. That work served as my introduction to creative writing. I experimented but still don’t know that I actually developed a voice.

When I started writing for myself, I tried for something consistent and my efforts seemed to help. But I believe I didn’t really find my voice until I had written a couple of years of weekly stories for this Telling Your Story group. Meeting that weekly goal and encouraging others to do the same, telling stories to almost the same people each week, and having an appreciative audience and being a part of this group did something for my sense of voice. I like the entertainment part of that work that reminds me so much of talking with a group of children on Sundays during many years of church work. Sometimes I made up the stories on the spot and encouraged the children to help me tell them. That got me started. Many years later I feel like I have a rather consistent voice and am happy to share my many stories with you. Mostly they are accurate to the extent of my ability to recall, but you know how that goes with the years stacking up, hearing reducing, and eyesight dimming. I appreciate that the story telling group allows me to speak whatever my voice is, found or not.

Thanks for listening, or on the blog, thanks for reading.

© 23 October 2017

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

Escape, by Phillip Hoyle

Years ago I’d escape to the hideout in the attic of the garage where this boy with no brothers hung out with boy friends. I’d sometimes go there alone or at least sit downstairs in the garage with my dog Tippy. In Jr. Hi years I’d close the door to my room. I’d matured and moved from sharing a room upstairs with two sisters into my own bedroom across the hall from my parents. Mom consulted with me about color and I ended up with dog wall paper—a mix of portraits of several dog species. Having my own room was great. It was my escape and it had a door! I did my projects and reading there. I enjoyed the solitude.

My friends and I made escapes to the countryside—both on our own and with the Boy Scout troop. We’d hike or ride bikes, or sometimes pull our sleds through the snow. With Scouts we were driven to a campsite south of town where hundreds of years before Native Americans had camped, grown crops, and lived out their summers, one of my favorite places on my great grandparents’ homestead. Kansa and earlier tribes had lived in the valley for centuries. While there I had the further escape of dreams and imagination. I knew I was camping and swimming with Indians long gone from the place.

My other great escape took form in 8th grade with my discovery of the historical novel. I started with James Fenimore Cooper’s stories, The Spy and The Last of the Mohicans, but then found more by contemporary writers like Kenneth Roberts’ book Arundel. I was hooked and spent much of my escape time tramping through forests and prairies with explorers and pioneers, spies and troops, and American Indians of many tribes. Books are still a major escape for me.

Escape is an important factor in personality development (as Don Johnson might point out), to independence (as my daughter would avow), to maintaining long-term relationships (as I testify, both as related to my 29-year marriage and 32-year career in churches). I found meaningful the saying: when a minister leaves one congregation for another, it’s turning in one set of tired problems for a set of new ones.

I still need escapes in retirement. They relieve pressure. Some days escape takes the form of going for coffee, having lunch out, searching a public library, or visiting a museum. These mini-breaks remind me of childhood’s yearly one-week vacation trips with the folks. I recall the morning we woke up in the tiny motel room where we’d slept. Dad complained about how the blinking red neon sign announcing “FULL” had kept him awake, but then, putting his arm around Mom said, “But in all it was a really good night.” My junior-high eyes and ears realized that while we kids slept, Mom and Dad had sex. I’m committed to working hard and then escaping to a change of pace or another book. I guess my upbringing taught me that.

© 19 February 2018

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

Clearly, by Phillip Hoyle

My writing teachers are still trying to teach me to write clearly. That seems like quite a challenge for a teacher to take on. While most of my instructors really have liked me—I am easy to get along with—they have had little clue of how my mind works, its story-laden way of expressing truth, its constant internal argument about what this writer wants, believes, and cares about, its strange logic, and its confusion over things spatial. Now that’s a special-education brain if there ever was one. I’m neither proud of nor ashamed it, for it’s the only one I have. Many teachers have set out to set me straight. Obviously they failed to do that although they have taught me many helpful and creative processes, ideas, and the like.

When I was first given a contract for a write-for-hire curriculum resources project and sent in my first draft of the first session, it came back to me looking very sorry, dripping in red ink and words of encouragement. I made the required changes—the ones in red ink—and thought through all the suggested comments—written in blue pencil. I didn’t have to make all these blue changes. I quickly typed in the red comments and found out that my editor took my awkward, unclear sentences and with a few red-ink changes made them say exactly what I meant. I was impressed and wondered where I was when they were handing out brains. What did I ask for? Perhaps I just wanted to have a good time which might not necessarily mean to think clearly.

My patient teachers have had to slow me down, to make me read and reread everything about a hundred times, over a time period lasting several months, sometimes several years. Of course that never works in write-for-hire jobs; the editors have deadlines to meet. I gave them things on time and looked forward to their corrections to make clear just what I was trying to say. I guess for them my being on time was a higher value that first-try clarity. They kept using me for ten years. Then I was done with that kind of writing.

Unfortunately, SAGE of the Rockies “Telling Your Story” program doesn’t give me enough time. I mess around in my early morning writing and scratch a few lines or run to the word processor and peck away hoping not to compound my lack of clarity with too many typos. It’s fun to write these stories, and I hope no listeners or readers spend too much time trying to analyze my logic or even common sense. If I have logic I’m sure it’s not common. If you hear or read something funny, just laugh. If I’m around I’ll smile with you. It’s all just another story to me. Did I say that last clearly enough?

And thanks for being as patient as have been my teachers and editors. 

© 20 November 2017

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

Curious, by Phillip Hoyle

I was curious about a book and then found myself in it. My young wife was studying to become a teacher, and a text from her ed-psych class caught my attention. There I read a developmental description of children. It seemed especially pertinent to my life in its description of boys in their upper elementary grades. Ever since that time I have looked at children in terms of their development using several schemes: psycho-sexual, psycho-social, cognitive, affective, and several more off shoots. I’ve had plenty of opportunity to observe having reared children in our home (ours and foster children), taught in churches, and directed children’s residential camps, on and on. I even taught developmental theory to workshop leaders in a denominational program to equip teachers in local churches. Now in retirement I have fewer opportunities for this observation, but when they present themselves, I look with scrutiny.

One neighborhood boy now probably ten, I first met when he was two or three. George was sitting on the step up to the neighbor’s sidewalk watching a large backhoe dig a huge hole in the asphalt street and explaining to his mother just what they were doing. The work was part of the installation of new storm sewers to replace the old-fashioned cisterns. There was little George with his mother watching the construction. I greeted his mother and met George. “He loves watching the tractors,” she said. “All last summer he made me take him over to South Broadway to see the trucks and tractors when they were rebuilding the street.”

“You certainly are curious,” I said sitting down next to the little boy. Was that a literary allusion? George’s school-teacher mother surely caught it. I did as well and said to the lad, “I’ll call you Captain Curious if that’s okay.” He didn’t say no. So during the weeks the construction was underway I called him Captain. He smiled. His mother encouraged his curiosity and now was relieved that this hole on our street was his new attraction, just half a block away.

Years have passed. He matured, became the elder brother. Their house is just far enough that I don’t often see George, his mother, dad or the younger brother, but when I happen to be in the front yard and they are going by, we stop to talk. I’ve wondered if my name-giving still holds. I now call him George, not Captain Curious. Kids do grow up. Still I watch for signs of his curiosity. What I see now is usually him whizzing by on a bicycle or a foot scooter or running by with some sort of ball to play with our neighbor boy Charley. George is more shy now, a common effect of growing up, but I believe he is still curious. He plays. He seeks out peers to play with. He practices. Also he does his homework (his mother told me). I take it to indicate he is as mentally bright as he is friendly.

One day last summer as I was pulling weeds from the flowerbeds, I noted that George was playing alone in their front yard. He had a football and was tossing and catching it. Playing center he’d hike it into the air, then turn around and catch it like the quarterback. He was passing, running, tackling, being tackled, evading his competitors and, I’m sure, barely winning a victory for his home team. He’s fun loving, physically coordinated, good looking, and according to his mom, still curious.

Of course, watching others is always as much memory as it is a present reality. I’m so glad I had friends, a rich upbringing, a noisy family and neighborhood, and the freedom to explore my fascinations in libraries, youth organizations, and an ever widening boundary for those explorations. I had friends—Keith, Dinky, Marvin, and Dick less than two blocks away. I didn’t have much time to be bored and when I was alone I’d throw baskets through the hoop above the garage door—well at least I’d try—and engage in other interests that filled my time and taught me skills and concepts. I feel privileged now to live in a neighborhood where I am reminded somewhat of my childhood curiosity. Life is grand. Old age continues to be quite bearable, for I am still curious and engaged.

I’m getting ready to meet the family with grandkids and great grandkids for Christmas. I wonder what I’ll observe this year. If it’s too much, I’ll simply grab an early plane for my return to my curious retirement.

© 11 December 2017

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

When I Knew, by Phillip Hoyle

I knew I liked sex games when I was in second grade—age 7.

I knew I liked sex games with boys in third grade—age 8.

I knew I missed sex games with boys in seventh grade, but this time the knowing was complicated by the fact that my boyfriends didn’t seem interested any more—age 12.

I knew when I was sexually molested by an older man that some men wanted sex with other men. I also knew I didn’t feel molested—age 14.

I knew I wasn’t the only teenager to get hard ons in the shower room at school. I also learned not to be distressed—age 14.

I knew some boys my age liked to kiss and have sex with other boys and that I too liked it. I also knew my friend missed his big brother who went off to university—age 15.

I knew that only some boys attracted me sexually, not all of them. In fact I knew that only a few boys attracted me; few girls as well—age 16.

I knew one guy in the dorm who attracted me by his personality, humor, and relaxed nudity—age 18.

I knew one other boy at college who liked to wrestle with me alone in my room and realized he must miss his brothers—age 19.

I knew I had unusually intense feelings for a younger undergraduate the year after I had married. He was the first person I ever lost sleep over—age 21.

I knew the new music teacher, Ted, would like to do sexual things I might like to do and hoped we’d become friends but not complicate my marriage—age 22.

I knew I had deep emotional responses to some few men in my first fulltime church job. I knew I wouldn’t do anything with them but did experience and enjoy the attractions—ages 23-25.

I knew an undergraduate at university who was gay and seemed interested in me—age 28.

I knew I had fallen in love with a fellow male student in seminary—age 30.

These when’s are only part of the story, for I kept having them—still do—age 70. The content, or what’s are, as they say, the rest of the story, and I have enjoyed these what images as I have written about my when’s. Ah, the glories of memory; but that’s another story or a million more.

© 2 April 2018

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

Utopia, by Phillip Hoyle

I find strange that crossword puzzles, including the New York Times, use Paradise as a clue for Eden. I hate to argue with cultural assumptions widely held, even if they come from a great poet like John Milton. But Paradise connects with a mythological afterlife in Christian terms, Eden uses a mythological origins story from the Hebrew tradition. To call Eden Paradise seems way too simple. The old garden was no utopia. The story makes that clear. Besides it’s an origin story for agriculture. The first humans tended the garden.
     The view of Paradise is a poet’s elaboration on a myth of afterlife. Utopia seems another matter altogether. A dreamer’s world of relationship. But both Eden and Paradise caution such perfectionist dreamers that problems will always be present. The need for change continues whatever the vision. 
     The main thing I like in utopian fantasies is the assumption that things in the world could be better. Well, you see, I’m schooled in the liberal tradition of democracies and the like. Yet I have a practical bent (Kansan perhaps) that cautions utopians not to suppose their ability to dream accomplishes what they are dreaming of.
     So this utopian-considering middle aged man left the trials and tribulations of straight life to live in gay life. He did not believe in salvation by gaydom, and it was a good thing he didn’t. He moved into the gayest part of the city, and started living in this new way in a gay environment only to discover gay was no less complicated than being straight. Oh, he and his ex-wife did agree living single was easier than being paired, but finding a perfect companion didn’t occur. There were none in this imagined utopia. And besides, gay men were people with traditions, inequities, and thousands of dreams—many unfounded—of what the gay utopia should be. Living there was as difficult as a career in marriage and church work. The only utopia he found was to get a job, continue to make friends, help neighbors, and laugh a lot. He’d already been doing that.
     Now this is not an essay to down anyone or any community. It is just about the non-existence of utopia except as a literary device of social critique, the theme of which is “things are going to get better” or let’s hope so anyway. 

© 4 February 2108

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

Time and Preparation, by Phillip Hoyle

The freedoms of college life and schedule demonstrated for me I would have to learn to manage my time, but I took years to figure out how my personality and preferences affected my ability to finish projects on time. At the beginning of a semester I’d study the prospectus of each class and begin figuring out how to approach papers that would be due. I’d go to the library, my favorite space in any school, where I’d search, research, and check out books. I loved digging into books and finding topics and approaches that made sense to me. Still I was writing and typing the piece right up to the last minute. Once I stayed up all night to do so but decided never to do that again. I needed my sleep! I’d just have to start earlier. Still I’d go to class re-reading the paper and changing spelling and even grammar by hand on the typed sheets. I realized Profs would like that I knew spelling and grammar better than typing. None of them criticized my last minute corrections.

One graduate school history project really captured me. I found a short 17th century German pietist theological treatise by August Hermann Franke titled “The Spiritual Affects” (of course in translation). My related paper compared it with a long book, René Descartes’ Passions of the Soul. I hoped to show Franke was not Cartesian. I was pushed for time so hired a neighbor to type the paper for me. As the deadline approached I gave her my introduction, then my first chapter that covered Franke. I was writing the conclusion while she was typing the second chapter that presented Descartes. I started wondering: maybe the old German was Cartesian. My thesis had asserted that he was not, but now that I was done writing, I thought he probably was and at the last minute concluded he actually was Cartesian. Looking again at the introduction and the conclusion, I decided I could have my typist change just a word or two in the intro, and I hurriedly rewrote the part of the conclusion. Somehow the logic of yes or no was a bit arbitrary to my analysis. But it just made more sense (at least ultimately)—a logical sense—a challenge for me since illogic seems as powerful and as helpful to me as logic. I changed the lines. The professor was amazed at the paper and agreed with my revised thesis, and I learned more about my relationship to time and preparation.

Some years later I was introduced to the Myers Briggs preferences inventory and found that I sat right on the line (zero) between thinker and feeler and on the line between judge and perceiver. Maybe that was why I had problems with those old papers. I wanted to read another book! I took another test that measured one’s preferences under stress. Aha. Under stress I become a thinker and an effective judge. That’s how I now do my work, with plenty of time to play around and a deadline to make me finish it. In the 1990s, when writing for a publishing company, I turned in all writing projects on time or even early. I suspect that is why they kept using me. The preparation was never a problem for me, but the deadline pushed me into being enough of a thinker and judge so as to complete the work.

These days I rely on SAGE Telling Your Story’s Monday 1:30 deadline to get my work done although I am still changing sentences, grammar, and spelling while riding the Zero bus on my way to the meetings.

© 29 January 2018

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