Canadian

Being Canadian means smiling at a stranger

when it is minus twenty-two

and this common experience

connects me to you.

Being Canadian means loving our land,

Enjoying the mountains, prairies and sand,

Laughing with the geese as they fly away

The winters’ snow and gusts we will withstand.

Being Canadian means watching from the sideline

as our big sibling makes choices

and we can only shake our heads

and raise our silent voices

We wait and see what will come to be

and hope we don’t make the same mistakes

We hope that we can stay afloat

that we don’t drown in their wakes.

Being Canadian means clinging to our own,

and watching as ownership slides through our fingers

to another American company

And only historical pride lingers.

Being Canadian means listening to the CBC

allowing them to normalize differences

giving voice to the minorities

challenging our inferences.

When others are different,

we stick up for them

We’re united in our uniqueness

Those who are rare, are our gem.

Being Canadian means I am sorry,

for the hurt and pain on this earth,

I take responsibility

Though I can to little to help of worth.

Being Canadian means feeling small

Though grand in size our numbers are few

Like a little sister we tag along

trying to be liked while to ourselves staying true

Being Canadian means knowing who we are not

before knowing who we are.

Being Canadian is always changing

Looking behind to see we’ve come far.

Being Canadian means I must end by saying

That this is what being Canadian means to me.

But out there, I’m sure, are 36 million ways to be.

Each one is right and each one is free.

Eyelash

We had transformed our basement into a theatre. The large room at the bottom of the stairs was divided into a seating area and the stage. The rooms which linked around the basement felt like secret passages and acted as our backstage. I sat with Celine it what was an undeveloped laundry room turned into our hair and makeup studio. I would have objected to the idea of makeup, but I knew I didn’t have a say. I had already heard her articulate the importance of stage makeup, and it was opening night. As she applied mascara, she commented on my eyelashes. They were long, and she said beautiful, and I didn’t care. “Someday,” she promised, “you’ll be grateful for them. They will catch the attention of all the cute boys.” I shuddered at the thought. She discredited my discomfort, and guaranteed that when I was a little older, I’d be grateful for my eyelashes, I’d want to know how to apply makeup to them, so they would jump out and capture the attention of men.

Age came, but I remained indifferent to my eyelashes. Beauty was something I hid rather than embraced. Baggy clothes offered a picketed fort of protection from where I could fire warnings at any male who got too close. More often than not, however, I just hid. I was glad that I was so successful, most of the time. Occasionally I’d wish someone would notice me. Honestly, I was always longing for attention, but I didn’t want the sort of attention I would garner by wearing makeup or stylish clothes. It didn’t seem to matter how much my age increased, my desire for the attention of cute boys, or men, never came to be. And just as I felt uncomfortable when Celine complimented my eyelashes, I continued to feel bothered every time someone suggested that I am beautiful. That suggestion had me worried that I might attract the attention of a man.
However, when SJ tells me I'm beautiful, I do not retaliate. When she tells me, my defence system is not triggered. When she tells me, I don’t think for a second that what she is actually communicating is, “don’t worry, some day, some boy will be attracted to you.” When she tells me, it is never with the suggestion that I wear mascara, fix my hair, or engage in any other activity to enhance my looks. She is talking about me, just as I am. When she tells me, she speaks both of my interior and exterior qualities. When she tells me, she believes it. And sometimes, when she tells me, I almost believe it myself.  When SJ tells me that I am beautiful, suddenly I care. I don’t want her to ever change her mind. I look at me in the screen and wonder if my nose is too pointy, if my wrinkles are to pronounced, yet I know SJ thinks I am beautiful. I also trust that as my wrinkles become entrenched, and all my hair turns white, she will still find me beautiful.

To Sacrifice All

Sometimes God asks for sacrifices. A classic example is that of Abraham being asked to sacrifice his son. Abraham, determined to do as the Lord commands, takes his son and sets of on that journey. He will be obedient. I wonder if Abraham ever doubted, after his arm was stayed, after the cords which bound his son were loosed, as he watched a ram sizzle upon the alter, I wonder, if at that moment he wondered if it should have been his son’s flesh burning. Did he question if it was really an angel which stopped him from killing his son. Did he ever wonder if perhaps it was a demon, or his own imagination?

Perhaps there are times when God wants us to be willing to sacrifice everything, when he tries our faithfulness, takes us to the edge of the cliff and then pulls us back. Do we then, hang out on the edge of the cliff, waiting again for God to change his mind and tell us to jump, or do we enjoy the meadow and trees behind us? Perhaps God is saying, “well done faithful servant. Because you were willing to give this up, you may now enjoy it.” Because Abraham was willing to kill his son, he was able to thereafter enjoy time with his son. Still, that son belonged to God, and was called to a righteous purpose. Abraham was required to raise his son in righteousness. I think of the Israelites who were required to bring animals for sacrifice, and yet were given a portion of the animal back to sustain them.

Yes, God requires sacrifice, and he requires obedience, but he will bless us in ways far beyond our comprehension. He will bless us in ways we never thought to ask for or imagine. When he does, he wants us to enjoy the blessings, and remember that they came from his hand. For my blessings, I will thank God, They are a gift, given because of his goodness, a gift I can experience because of my obedience. May my life glorify God.

I am gay, and that's okay... but I am not sure what that means.

When I told my bishop that I am gay, he told me “that’s okay.” I’ve been wondering ever since exactly what that means. Does it mean it is okay that I like rainbows and the colour purple?

I suppose it is difficult for me to say what it means for me to be gay, because I don’t like stereotypes. I can’t say that the reason I like playing soccer is because I am gay. Maybe I just like playing soccer. So, perhaps I can stick only with the basics. I am gay, that means I am attracted to women, and that is okay. God made women beautiful, and it is okay if I notice that beauty.

Perhaps a better starting point would be: “I am me, that’s okay, but what does that mean?”

My identity and my understanding of myself has changed a lot in the past 7 years. I was once held the belief that Mormon’s were very wrong, and headed to hell. Now I am a Mormon. I once thought that being gay was a choice, and that being gay was a wrong and bad choice. Now I identify as gay. I once thought I’d be a Christian youth worker, now I teach adults in a secular environment.

I’m a Mormon, and that is okay. Generally I have come to terms with this. I have grown in my faith and confidence, and my love of the Book of Mormon and our living prophets. It is still tricky around my family as I try hard to avoid offending them, and as I fear I cannot fully talk about that part of my life. At times I feel like they do not want to hear much about the church. At other times, being a Mormon is hard for me, and I don’t want to express these struggles in a way which might make the church look bad. I am a Mormon, being a Mormon is hard, and that is okay.

I am gay, and that’s okay. It took me many years of life to accept my orientation, and even now, I am not sure I fully understand what it means. I am coming to understand that being gay is about more than dealing with certain temptations. Yes, there are certain temptations that come with being gay, but there is more to being gay than being tempted. Perhaps being gay is more than okay, perhaps it is beautiful. God didn’t just make me okay, he made me good. He has a plan and a purpose for me, yes, even for the gay me. We are not all meant to be the same. We are beautifully different, and gay me has something unique to contribute. I am gay, and I hope one day I will fully see that I am gay and that’s beautiful.

I am a teacher, and I really do love my job. Sometimes I feel bad for leaving behind the dreams of my youth, but I am happy to do what I do, and to allow this job to become part of my identity.

Another addition to my identity which I picked up nearly 5 years ago is the title “Auntie.” I love being an aunt, and I seek to be the best aunt ever. At times this is very hard, as depression and anxiety keep me from engaging as fully as I wish I could. But, I love being an aunt. I love my nieces and nephew.

I am me, and that is okay.

I felt like… a prophet.

I’ve been teaching English as a Second Language, and I generally enjoy my job. I work part-time and pick up other shifts subbing. I was asked to sub yesterday, and I was asked to give the students an assessment… a test. The students were not pleased by this news, and it was very much new news to them. I took the first part of class teaching them about letter writing. It was supposed to be review, but it seemed full of ideas foreign to my students. When it came time to administer the test, they retaliated. They gave me every good reason why they should not have to write the test, and begged me just to teach them instead. I told them we were writing the test. I tried to prepare them for the test, giving them all the information they would need, but they were not listening. They had determined that they were not writing the test. I tried to explain that the test was the material which the teacher had left for them. I was just following orders. I didn’t know why she had left them this test, but I gave possible explanations, guessing at her motivation. They were stubborn. So was I. They threatened to go to a different school, an easier school, if I made them take the test. At one point another teacher walked by the window. I gave a slight nod of my head, beckoning for his help. When he entered, I told him the situation, and he told the class that I was just following orders. They could complain to their teacher, but they shouldn’t complain to me. It was nice having him back me up. He was a second witness, but the class still did not care.

It was then that I started to cry. I didn’t want to manipulate them with my tears, really, I didn’t want to cry, but it didn’t feel like I had much choice.  My tears softened them, but didn’t change their resolve. They assured me that their frustration wasn’t against me, they promised that they liked me, but they were frustrated with all that had gone on that semester and they were not writing that test. One of the students came and put her arm around me, another told me not to cry, while a third asked me why I cried. The only answer I could think to give him was that I am fragile. Through my tears, I taught them the English saying “don’t shoot the messenger,” and pleaded with them again to write the test. One of the students asked me to just teach them. “I can’t teach anymore,” I said. I didn’t mean I could never teach again, only that it is hard to teach and cry at the same time.

The hour allotted for the test was now diminished by half. My resolve was weakened, and I asked them to try. I told them to do the test as practice, and I would help them, and they could ask me questions. I placed the tests on their desks. They looked one to another, trying to decide if they would indeed try. Slowly pencils met papers and they began the test.

I reflected on the question, “why did I cry?”

I cried because I felt disappointed.

I cried because I felt like they were trying to manipulate me.

I cried because I want to do what I have been told to do. Foundational to my molarity is a need to do what I am told, and what I have agreed to do. I am good at following instructions, but they sought to deny me of the joy of doing that.

As I walked home, I thought about prophets. I thought about prophets like Samuel the Lamanite who stood declaring a message only to have people hurl stones at him. I thought about prophets during the years when black members could not hold the priesthood. They wanted to give suggestions about why that might have been so, but really they did not know. They were simply doing what they had been told to do. I thought about prophets today, declaring hard truth against gay marriage. People may threaten them, tell them they will join a different church, an easy church, if the prophets don’t change their mind. The message doesn’t come from the prophet. If we must complain, we should complain to God. President Nelson offers that invitation in these words, “Pour out your heart to your Heavenly Father. Turn to Him for answers and for comfort. Pray in the name of Jesus Christ about your concerns, your fears, your weaknesses—yes, the very longings of your heart. And then listen!” (https://www.lds.org/general-conference/2018/04/revelation-for-the-church-revelation-for-our-lives?lang=eng)

I’d better post this, and then get back to work.

Death or Life

The blogpost I read yesterday left me feeling pretty hopeless.

What I took away from it was that the only way to find happiness in this life is to hope for, seek for and hopefully find, a romantic partner, where both partners feel strong romantic feelings for the other. One idea that was strongly presented was that denying oneself of the pursuit of a romantic relationship resulted in dying, in becoming more and more anxious and depressed and far too often in suicide. While he did not quote any sources, he spoke with one having authority, and I cannot deny his struggle nor the struggles of so many like us.

Am I depressed because I don’t seek for a girlfriend, because I don’t allow myself to hope for a romantic relationship with someone I could love?

Is there no other way to be happy but to search for a romantic partner?

Even if I take anti-depressants, if I exercise and socialise, am I fighting a losing battle? Is the battle to become a happy, faithful Latter-day saint one that I can never win?

Am I dying? Am I killing myself slowly by denying myself of an intimate relationship with a woman?

With these heavy questions playing through my mind, I got to bed late, only to wake up early to head to the temple. While the temple has motivated me to stay faithful before, I wondered if it is really worth it. I go to the temple regularly, I enjoy my time there, but it hasn’t brought lasting peace into my day to day life, it hasn’t made me happy. It hasn’t taken my depression away. I am still dying on the inside.

Before the session began, I found myself focused on a picture I had never noticed before. It is a picture of Jesus Christ standing on a hill outside of a city. I wasn’t sure if it was depicting a specific story. What I did notice, however, was the light radiating from the character of Christ. I was reminded of my institute class from yesterday. “I am the light and the life,” Jesus said.

It struck me, Jesus Christ is my source of life. No potential lover can take his place. While I believe that (and I also believe looking for such life from humans will lead to disappointment), I also believe there is value, a lot of value and a lot of good that comes from human interaction and human intimacy. It isn’t good for Patricia to be alone.

As usual, I struggled to stay away during the session. Suddenly, a phrase hit me, jolting me awake, having me wish I could rewind and listen again. It was a phrase reminding me of a covenant I made with God, a covenant I made to sacrifice, to sacrifice, if necessary, even my life. If the aforementioned blogger is right, if foregoing any hope of a lesbian lover causes me to die inside, even death is not a reason to forsake my covenants, for dying is what I have covenanted to do.

I didn’t get any warm-fuzzies, while I was in the temple, telling me that my life would be easy and happy, but I was reminded that I do have hope. I hope for that which God has planned for me, I hope that his plan is greater than my plan. I hope, indeed, I have faith that what he offers is greater than the joys I could find in a romantic relationship. I don’t know what God envisions for my life, but I know his vision is greater than mine and so I have hope.

I hope that hope is enough to keep me going and to keep me living. Not just to keep me physically alive, but to keep me alive, and thriving, inside.

Enlarge My Plate

I know that feeling of having too much on my plate. I feel that way almost every day. The reality is, while I feel like I have far more to do than I can possible handle, I don’t. While I feel that adding one more activity to my week, will cause my balance boat to tip and sink, it won’t. The reality is, most days I have plenty of time to waste playing games on my phone and I can’t find the motivation to engage in useful tasks because none of them are pressing.

Today I took on a task, made of goal, which I am not sure I can accomplish. As I was feeling overwhelmed, I prayed, expressing how I felt that I had too much on my plate, but acknowledging that I can accomplish more than I think I can. Rather than praying for activities to be taken from my plate, I asked that my plate would be big enough. Rather than having fewer tasks required of me, I want to have the ability to accomplish more, and, I want to have peace, knowing that God will not ask me to do more than he will enable me to accomplish.

Mosiah24:15 “And now it came to pass that the burdens which were laid upon Alma and his brethren were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord.”