Sanctity of Life

I've wrestled with whether or not I should write this blog for a while now. Mainly because I had this fear that people would misinterpret it, and therefore ostracize me from their communities. I hope that whoever reads this has eyes to see what I'm actually saying.

If I ever met Henry Morgentaler, I would shake his hand.

And while shaking his hand, I would apologize to him for the hatred and threats on his life that have been proclaimed in the name of a God I believe in - a God that does not desire harm against him.

Since the Order of Canada was bestowed upon Dr. Morgentaler, I have read of people returning their honours in protest. I've been invited to Facebook groups decrying both Morgentaler and the decision. There has been a media flurry of public outcry. As of this week, things have quieted down considerably, and yet this topic still lingers with me. This is because the Christian community that I was raised in was one where we would line city streets in protest of abortion, bombarding passing vehicles with "Abortion is Murder" placards. There was an energy amongst Christians back in 1988 that was infectious, and I remember as a little boy being in awe of the number of people who vocalized their opposition, as 4 kms of Brantford's busiest road was clogged with placards and chants one Sunday afternoon.

Today, as I continue to explore what it means to follow Jesus, I have to lament the amount of energy that was put into a protest like that when we seem unwilling to exert similar energies to a deeper range of injustices. Don't get me wrong, I love the fact that people aren't silent, and thereby consenting to the ebb and flows of our society. But I haven't seen a similar protest against poverty or affluence. But I digress...

...only slightly. I don't want to talk about organizing new protests, but I want to speak into a new direction to focus the energies that followers of Jesus have. I don't think that anyone should publicly protest against issues like abortion unless they are willing to work towards viable alternatives (and I'm not just talking about adoption, this runs deeper). Are we willing to take in single, pregnant, mothers-to-be, and to provide for them? Are we willing to work towards the eradication of the shame of marginalized parenthood that makes so many desire abortions? Are we willing to clothe the naked and feed the poor? If we are male AND female, made in God's image, then are we willing to fight against the oppression of women within our patriarchal society - an oppressive force that makes the body seemingly the sole source through which freedom can be exercised? If we are not willing to do this, then why should anyone listen to us regarding this matter?

When I read about the kingdom of God, I see a language of freedom from oppression, not a language of shame or coercion, and most certainly not a vindictive language of violence. I hope I am not alone in thinking that it would be more productive to change the way we live our lives so as to bring change to our communities and our gendered relationships than to scream "murder!" at the top of our lungs. As one who believes in the sanctity of life, I choose to extend that to cover all aspects of life. As such, I live for a society in which gender does not necessitate oppression, and where the threat of death, hate, or harm is never uttered, even to our strongest opponents.

Let us bring justice into this world - a justice that invites all to revel in the sanctity of life from start to middle to finish.

Is somebody homesick?

The other day, on the drive back from Ottawa, I had a terrible feeling in my stomach. The last time I had felt that feeling was on the final day of my solo-backpacking trip across Canada four years ago. The last time I had felt it before that was in elementary school when I went to my first sleepovers and couldn't handle it. It was homesickness.

For the last two months I've been in a state of limbo. My belongings have moved with me back to Brantford, but I haven't felt able to settle in there. I still live out of the cardboard box that I packed my clothes in. The majority of my time has been spent in Hamilton doing IV work and finishing school. Each morning when I wake up, I lack the knowledge of where I'm going to wake up the next morning.

Will it be at my parent's house? Will it be on a friend's couch or futon? Will it be in a car en route to some destination? What city will I be in?

The nomadic life used to be an ideal for me, but now I'm craving a place to call home and to root myself in. I think I would be able to handle this transient lifestyle as long as I knew which place I could always return to. But as of now, I don't know of any place.

I know there are lessons to be learned through this period of upheaval, but to be honest, it has been difficult to admit the allusion in my story to a far older story of one who could find no place to rest his head. But I think I need to admit it now, and then go and see what happened in that earlier context.

sigh

Any doubts I had about the existence of purgatory were vanquished on Sunday after spending a late afternoon in suburban Oakville. Apparently they don't believe in restaurants there.

I also ran over a turtle with my car yesterday. I felt terrible when it happened, and I still feel terrible. Sorry Franklin.

Come Friday I'll be up to camp for a couple of days, then in Ottawa for a mini Canada Day vacation, and then back in town and back to work!

This is some good news!

(after the title jingle, the camera zooms in to a medium close up shot of the newscaster)

Good evening, I'm Peter Mansbridge and these are your tops stories in Dave's life for July 19, 2008.

- After a prolonged tenure at McMaster University as an undergraduate student, Dave Stone has finally completed his one remaining course - and as such is finished his Combined Honours Degree in English & Religious Studies. His final foray in academia saw him enjoying a Film Analysis course he had wanted to take for years, and receiving a 95% for his final paper - a paper that was written on the morning it was due in what was the deemed the norm for this compulsive procrastinator. Somewhere in the lonely halls of power Peter George is lamenting the loss of another student who he could financially take advantage of.

- Elsewhere in the news, the false start for Dave's first novel seems to have been received well by those who have read it, which has reportedly been an encouragement to the budding author. He has also been encouraged by how quickly his new writing has risen to the same length as his previous attempt. With school no longer figuring into his schedule, Dave says he is interested and excited to see how his creativity flourishes and fills the void left by classes and homework.

- Now to the financial world with a Fundraising Update.

(pause for a on screen graphic of dollar, euro, and pound symbols, accompanied by the Hockey Night in Canada Theme song that seems to have found its way into the broadcast after being clumsily let go by CBC Sports)

- Dave's initial fundraising work has gone slower than he would have hoped for this time, however, he has been blessed by the progress of those around him, and encouraged by the growing list of people who have shown their interest in supporting his work at McMaster. For more indepth ways of financially supporting Dave's work, you can visit www.ivcf.ca and visit the support tab.

- Now for the weather forecast. As the rainy season seems to be coming to an end with quite the bang, this weekend sees the beginning of wedding season! Somewhere there are people getting ready to 'grab that net and catch that butterfly!' There also seems to be a low pressure system of wedding crashing approaching from the west. Bring your dancing shoes!

- In entertainment news, Coldplay's "Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends" seems to have renewed Dave's interest in the UK quartet, after a poor showing on their previous record "X&Y".

- Finally in sports, Dave is still excited that the Detroit Red Wings won the Stanley Cup a couple of weeks ago, and is looking forward to seeing who they pick up in the offseason.

That's all from us on this, the 19th of June. For Dave Stone and the National, I'm Peter Mansbridge. Join us next time as we highlight the day's top stories in Dave's life. Thanks for staying this long and making it until the end.

Some writing.

The following is a portion of the story I had been working on up until this past weekend. I realized that I could not continue with this story for a variety of reasons, and it has been one of the most freeing decisions I've made as of late. For those interested, you can see this unrefined and unfinished false start of mine. More writing is going to come, and hopefully soon.


For the first week his surroundings seemed so foreign to him that he had to continually take the bus forty-five minutes back to his apartment. Once at his doorstep, he would immediately feel awkward as he remembered that the subletter in his room had brought her fiancé along with her, and out of fear of interrupting the couple in the midst of sex he would decide against knocking. The couple didn’t have sex all day long, but the mere thought of interrupting them one time was enough to keep him outside.

What would I have done if I had gone inside anyways? This isn’t my home right now, he mumbled as he walked back to the bus station and took a return trip. He did this a couple of times the first week until he realized the futility and saved thirty dollars of bus fare. Instead of taking bus trips, he decided to stay in town and take walks to reorient himself with the settings. It had all been familiar to him years ago, but a large fog had developed over time that he knew had to dissipate if he wanted to make the next few months fruitful. He would go walking just as the dinnertime sun began to recede, and would remain largely within his own neighbourhood. He did this every other day for his second week.

Once he had reconnected with the streets and parks of his childhood, he started to venture out into other neighbourhoods in the city. He was becoming a regular again at certain coffee shops as he caught up with old friends who were still in the area, and still searching for a pub to haunt in a town that had lost all it’s original watering holes to the new, strip mall pubs and eateries that were popping up in the new suburbs. He loathed going to these places because they faked the aesthetic and community of an actual pub – the kind of ma-and-pa run place where you were welcomed each night. There was something criminal, he thought, about the way a crew of university girls in short kilts serving beers they couldn’t pronounce correctly were forcing family businesses that prided themselves on the quality pour into the ground.

As the third week began, he knew that while he was starting to get accustomed to life in his hometown there was purpose for him being here that he had shirked up until that point. He was there to write – and in order to write he knew he had to start walking beyond his own neighbourhood. There were other places that bore most of his memories, and he had to go there.

Rather than working his way up to places most endearing and painful to him – the thematic trait thus far – he went straight for the old playground of Spartan Park. He went at midnight, when the park was silent and still, and the only lighting was the dim reflection of orange streetlights on an overcast sky. He sat contemplatively and searched for creative insight on top of the jungle gym, then swung back and forth on the swings, rhythmically trying to move back in time. He caught a few glimpses of pasts spent trying to swing over the top bar, and boys and girls playing tag down the slides and across monkey bars. There had been childish attempts at flirtatious gibberish. These had been brief flashes, coming and going, but there was still no over-arching image. So he left the playground and began his walk through the neighbourhood – towards a specific house.

As he walked throughout the quiet suburb he immediately felt guilty, as if someone was watching him and knew he was returning to a place with intentions. His intentions weren’t clear to him though – if anything he was trying to discover his intentions, to have ears open to hear directions. He was constantly scanning his surroundings to see if someone was viewing his journey. Even though there was no reason for him to feel wrong about walking late at night, he still felt like he was on someone else’s property. He had already done that years ago, and it hadn’t gone extremely well for him. But in that scenario years earlier he had come away with a treasure that made the trespassing worth it.

On that night, as he made his way closer to his destination, he grew anxious over what was going to occur once the familiar house came into view. Then it did. First the backyard fence came into view, then the large pine tree on the side of the corner property. He walked gingerly along the sidewalk, so as to not make his presence known to who ever he suspected was silently waiting to judge him. He glanced at the basement window on the side of the house, and the memories began to quickly flow. His heart rate began to increase. He shifted his eyes to the ground and continued on the sidewalk until he had rounded the corner and was able to look upon the house from the front. As he raised his head, he first noticed that there were no curtains in the front window. So too there was no porch swing on the front porch. Things were different, but he had expected that. What he had not expected was the realtor’s sign that moved only slightly in the night wind. Nor did he expect the sold sign that was stuck against it.

The context in which he had remembered running throughout the house had been absent for over a decade. He knew the place would be somewhat different, with the knowledge that another family had moved in, but now the place looked empty. Where had the last family gone? Who was moving in? He wondered what story had developed and been the cause for the last family to leave – knowing full well that there was always a story behind transitions.

Alright. So I’m here. Now why? he thought. He was curious as to why he had chosen that night to visit the old house, and why, of all the times he could have come, he chose now. The sign was glaring at him. He remembered how alienated he felt from his childhood the last time he had seen a sold sign on the front lawn. A pang of fear struck him at the thought of being even farther removed from what had been once so familiar and safe for him. He was afraid that his memories, strained as they already were, would not survive being three times removed once the third set of new residents arrived. There was an overwhelming sense of immediacy beginning to surface. He had to start writing.

He had to quickly scribble down the thoughts starting to form within for fear of forgetting them once he returned home, so he fumbled in his side bag for his pocket journal and opened it to the first available page. There was no structure or reason behind what he wrote blindly in the night. Thoughts became words, which in some cases became sentences. The page began to fill with random thoughts full of repetition and wordplay. When three pages were full he moved back to the corner of the property, where the streetlight was strongest, and squinted to see what the orange glow made of his scrawling. His writing, frantic as it had been, resembled a school child learning cursive. He read over the pages, but nothing stood out to him as coherent.

His knees tightened as frustration began to rise. Is there anything I can gather from any of this? He was so angry that nothing was becoming clear to him that he was prepared to rip up everything he had written. As he began to tear the first page out, his eyes caught the last thing he had written in his journal before that evening – something he had been struck by in a discussion with an old religious studies professor of his. He briefly remembered their discussion of various religious eschatologies after a class that previous winter on death and dying, in which the professor offered a gem that he had written down:

- Death is a radical revelation that opens up the future…

He stopped mid-rip and meditated on that comment. He focused on the quote so intensely that it quickly became blurred, forcing him to refocus. Death is a radical revelation that opens up the future. It was right there. This was his second sign of the evening, and the clearest of anything he had seen that night. He had finally found it. When he looked up from the journal his eyes returned to the ‘for sale’ sign, and an image of what he must do began to form. Oh, this is just ridiculous, he chuckled. I’m going to get a lot of flack for this, but if I’m going to give myself a funeral, I want a proper goodbye – from the inside out.

He scribbled down the address of the realtor, closed his journal and walked home.

In the morning he brewed some coffee for his travel mug and set off to see the realtor. He wasn’t sure how he was going to phrase what he had to ask, nor if he would be asked to leave the premises. The reality of his proposition was, well, quite unusual to both him and those he envisioned hearing him out. Though the distance from his house to the realtor’s office warranted a bus or taxi ride, he needed the long walk to formulate what he was going to say.

The Greater Narrative

When I was working on my funeral project a couple of weeks ago, I made repeated reference to a greater narrative, in which the narrative of my life was a small part. I think there is a lot of depth to the idea of viewing life as a narrative instead of a series of related or interlocking experiences. Series of experiences gives such a linear view of life, whereas narratives often have themes and experiences that are revisited and reflected upon. It's the acts of revisiting and reflecting that give significance to our experiences, and in some sense complete them. So perhaps life is a spiral moving up and down. It's cyclical through revisiting and reflecting, and linear in both directions: upwards as our stories develop, and downward as we find greater depth and meaning in our own stories. I think the implications of this view of life are enormous, especially in our VERY linear-thinking culture.

Starting tomorrow I'm doing a week long study of origin of the greater narrative(s) in Toronto. I'm interested to see how this study influences the way I view my narrative.

In a just over a week I'll hopefully start working on some narratives that have been kicking around in my head for the past 5 years. School is just about done, so the time to write is now.

...sat on a park bench like bookends...

I'm moving back to Brantford at the end of the month, just for the summer. I can't tell you how much this excites me. I'll still have some school left to finish in May and June, so I'll be in Hamilton quite a lot still, but the thought of returning home is really exciting! And it's all because of relationships.

First, there is the relationship between myself and art. I've spent the last five at Mac drawing influences and inspiration from my classes, but very little creation has taken place (beyond a few short stories and short films). Now is the time to put my education to work. I think I view the last five years as preparation for my writing (many classes were spent daydreaming about the perfect story, the perfect soundtrack, the perfectly framed shot). So now I begin writing, and there is no better place to do so than back home in Brantford. I feel like there's a lot of unresolved elements in Brantford that I'll be returning to, and as difficult as it may be, I need to go back into these old haunts in order to be faithful to the some of the stories I want/need to write.

A return to my old art.

Secondly, and more importantly, is the relationship between myself and Brantford friends. I think a distance has developed in many of my relationships with people back home, and I'm not content to leave it that way. Sure, as people develop into different paths, journeys, and stories, sometimes we inevitably become distanced. But this is not because I do not value those friendships. It is just the way the story has developed thus far. I'm more Art Garfunkel than I am Paul Simon.

A return to my old friends.

As F. Scott so eloquently put it,

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

It is time for my Gatsby.

The Wonder Years

Today, I was reminded of a website my good friend Jared Korstanje made a few years ago (his technical prowess is... astounding). If you look closely, you'll find some rather embarrassing pictures of me experimenting with facial hair back when it first started growing, and trying to pretend I was a part of Team Zissou.

Why is the website dedicated to Winnie Cooper and The Wonder Years, you might ask?
Because my first girlfriend in high school looked like Winnie Cooper. She never really saw it that way (in fact, the mere insinuation of a likeness brought forth a blinding rage which was hard to subside), but it was true. I thought/still think it was a compliment. For years it was a running/inside joke amongst friends, but I had forgotten all about it until today. There's nothing like a good, hearty laugh to make your day, and I had a big one.

It is with thoughts of high school memories that I end this post with quite possibly the greatest closing lines to a TV show - and a line which pretty much sums up my view of the past:

Things never turn out exactly the way you planned. I know they didn't with me. Still, like my father used to say, 'Traffic's traffic, you go where life takes you, and growing up happens in a heartbeat. One day you're in diapers, the next you're gone, but the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul. I remember a time a place, a particular fourth of July, the things that happened in that decade of war and change. I remember a house like a lot of houses, a yard like a lot of yards, on a street like a lot of other streets. I remember how hard it was growing up among people and places I loved. Most of all, I remember how hard it was to leave. And the thing is, after all these years I still look back in wonder. -Kevin Arnold