Of Tears, Refraction and Constants

She was sitting in the row in front of me, a couple of seats to my right. The light reflecting from the tear on her cheek caught my eye. Her head was bowed, but then she looked up. And tried to smile that kind of smile that can only be smiled when there is a tear reflecting from on the cheek. And the white-haired lady sitting to her right was trying to console her. Found her a tissue. But the tissue was used only to blow the nose. For it seemed that the tears were an essential essence of her expression of grief. And she was not a petty lady. Rather, a beautiful lady. And it was her turn to need consoling in the sacred space of that church.

I could turn, and look toward my left. Through the entire wall-expanse of glass. Could hardly discern the separation of the sacred space within the church from the sacred space of the canopied natural foliage of protective forest on the outside.

And between the optimist, upward-looking petals of the dogwood trees in my view, and me . . . was a small table with lighted candles, representing the silent joys and concerns of the congregants.

And the dogwood flowers would shimmy and shake. Refract, bend. Go into, come out of focus. But that effect was seen only in the columns of heated air above each small lighted candle.

And our joys and our concerns do change things. Change our perceptions. Change our patterns. Change how we see things.

And they change us.

For it was two weeks ago I sat in that sacred space. It was my tears refracting the light from my cheek.

And my grief was a horrible grief of the realization that I might have lost that what I so hoped was going to make me complete.

I didn’t even have the strength to light a candle of sorrow on that occasion.

But today, the lens of the heated air, bending those dogwood flowers, was from a candle that I had lit.

A candle of joy.

For joy!

For earlier this morning, another note from the one whom I thought I had lost forever.

And he described his unifying theory of our destiny.

In terms of calculus! In terms of the summation of two constants . . . k.

In terms of our bondage. My bondage in denying for most of my life that I am gay. My ability to finally escape from the closet, and escape from that bondage. His bondage of not needing to escape, for he accepted his being gay from the beginning. But his bondage in the wanting of a soul-mate. And so his first constant is a constant (k) of bondage.

In terms of seeking. My seeking, his seeking, our seeking, of companionship, of soul-mate commune. And so his second constant is a constant (k) of seeking.

And with the certainty of Einstein, or Pascal, or Newton, or Galileo, his principle of unity is simply:

k + k = Destiny.

And though his day is four time-zones ahead of mine, his spiritual experience at his place of worship had already come and gone . . . as I watched the shimmering dogwoods above my lighted candle of joy . . . I breathed little prayers of thanksgiving for the sacred spaces that console the glistening tear of joy on my cheek, and on his cheek.

And as the service came to an end, as we stood to leave that sacred space . . . the beautiful lady with the tear on her cheek . . . her eye caught mine.

And for the first time in a long time, I had the internal radiance to smile.

And she smiled back at me.

The Refectory Manager

“Face it guys, we’re kinda’ crass when it comes to hygiene!”

Well, the headline did catch my eye! “Face it guys, we’re kinda’ crass when it comes to hygiene!”

It was in the on-line edition of The Calgary Herald (Sunday, April 9, 2006), and told of one student’s science display topic at the science fair. Seems this student has documented evidence that the bathroom door handle to the little girl’s room in her school had less bacteria than the bathroom door handle of the little boy’s room.

So what else is new. When boys pick their nose they eat it and when girls do, they throw it away!?!

But at church today, it wasn’t about the little boy’s room. Rather, in this case, it was the big boy’s room. The big boy’s room is rather little. The cramped little cubicle of a men’s restroom in the church that I attend. It was finally my turn at the one and only sink in the place to wash my hands. And wow! Was that water hot! I trust it was less than 140 degrees F., the supposed safety limit for water temperatures in public places by county ordinance, but it had to be close.

I dutifully sang “Happy Birthday” under my breath twice. (For that is the length of time it takes to effectively wash one’s hands, at least that is how we teach employees in the food service industry as we implement the “Serv-Safe Food Sanitation Guidelines” that we are certified to uphold.) But the guy behind me was breathin’ down my neck trying to get me to speed up. As I was throwing my paper towel into the trash, I remarked to him, “That water is hot!”

“Oh, good! That’ll kill the germs!” he barked out, as about two drops of hot water splashed on the end of his finger!

Problem is – as hot as that water was, it is still in the “Danger Zone.” The temperature range for prolific bacterial growth. “Keep things hot, or keep things cold, or don’t keep it long.” And by hot, it is meant keeping things greater than 140 degrees F. By cold, it is meant 40 degrees F. or colder.

And so the little sprinkling of danger-zone water on the danger-zone tips of that guy’s danger zone fingers would have just added to the contamination of that danger-zone door handle to that science fair danger-zone student’s danger-zone project.

Funny! We are all danger zone. Look at our body temperature! Right smack in the middle! How dangerous can we be?!

Dangerous we are, but well intentioned.

I still have to chuckle at the “zone of danger” we were interviewing for a job. I was the food service director in a rural hospital in Northern California. My young chef, an hourly employee, and the Assistant HR director and I were conducting the panel interview for a basic dietary aide position.

The candidate was a middle-aged lady with a background of which I should not have been aware (all those “illegal” things to avoid asking about in a hiring interview), but in a small town, reputations do precede.

But it is certainly appropriate and “OK” to ask work-related questions. So I asked the candidate to describe for me how a food service worker should wash their hands.

She was flustered, and gave a hand-wringing, wringing hands demonstration of how to wring hands while washing them.

My chef asked her how long she should do that little procedure? (Remember … twice the length of “Happy Birthday!”)

Bless her heart, and she blurted out “I suppose about 10 seconds, but I can do it faster if you want me too!”

I hope she didn’t see me flinch!

And talking about flinching. Or quinching. Or queasing. Or just plain queasy. But the typical Adventist potluck is a danger-zone of gastronomique proportions. Not that it isn’t all “health food” directly descended from the original gluttons gluten of Battlecreek Sanitarium, it is that “health food” by definition is “potentially hazardous.”

“Potentially hazardous” in that it is a moist mixture of protein in which bacteria just passionately love to have single-cell sex and breed all kinds of nasty things. And remember that “keep it hot, or keep it cold, or don’t keep it long thing?” Well, the don’t keep it long thing is 2 hours max. An epic life-time for the flourishing sex addicts in potentially hazardous foods. But shorter than the soul-feeding part preceding the body-feeding part of a typical pot luck Sabbath.

You know the drill. Early Sabbath morning. The gluten steaks, the Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup, the shredded cheddar cheese, the extra scoops of sour cream, a little sautéed minced garlic, maybe some French fried onions sprinkled on top for garnish . . . then into the oven to bake for a few minutes during the frenzy of getting everybody ready for church. What could be more healthy than that! Then the wrapping of the old casserole dish (the one that is chipped on the corner so that if it gets lost at potluck, it won’t matter) in layers of newspaper, secured with duck tape, and then wedged into the trunk of the car.

Short half hour trip to church! Then somebody runs the newspaper package into the fellowship hall and sticks it on the counter.

Five hours later, after the “health food” has festered in the high life of the danger zone, the ravenous parishioners are called to gather around for the blessing on the bounty of the table. Doesn’t matter that two little boys have already rifled the olive dish and are proudly waving 10-olive laden digits in each other’s face, and some shy little girl has snuck a quick finger-lickin’ taste of the chocolate swirl icing on the swirled chocolate cake.

But hey! We’re asking the blessing! Now is that faith or presumption? But what can one do? But to find that one person in the congregation with the best connection to heaven to beg for the safety of this stuff!

So what of the occasional retching and squirting of Montezuma’s Revenge, just face it guys, we’re not only kinda’ crass when it comes to hygiene, we’re macho as well!

The Refectory Manager

To my Fellow Seeker in Dublin

I just want to let you know how much I enjoyed our conversation today. For the first time, we really “talked.”

We opened up and shared some of our private little sensitive spots, those spots on our souls that are vulnerable to hurt by others. Those spots that we jealously guard and protect at the expense of our existence. And it is a wonderful thing when two men can talk about seeking spiritual things.

I sense that we each have a nebulous concept of what spiritual things are, and I sense, and hope, that they are not “religious” things. For we each have and can have our own “religious” traditions and celebrations and sacraments, but it is the essence of the heart and what gives life and meaning in the spiritual, life-sustaining way that I mean.

In my last question to you in our conversation before it got interrupted, I asked if you were alone. If you have others with whom you can speak of these kinds of things.

Perhaps not. Perhaps that is why you are such a seeker. For you have that inert craving for these kinds of conversations. And it thrills me to feel this connection.

As you roll back the IM scrolling log of our conversation, I suspect you will find, as I did, the inter-play of a little dance. The sharing … the pulling back … the sharing … the pulling back. And our stories unraveled from their tight little ball of sequestration.

It truly was a great conversation. And I so look forward to so many more.

The Refectory Manager

For it is the second mouse that gets the cheese.

For it is the second mouse that gets the cheese. I have no clue as to what prompted Sir Winston Churchill to utter those words. And I had no clue that I was going to meet the second mouse.

When one is entrenched deep within one’s personal little maze, one doesn’t always know the intricacies of that entrenching environment. There I was, typically entrenched. About 7:00 p.m. The Kinship Region 2 Vespers was scheduled to begin at 7:30. I was stuck at a traffic light. Looking in the review mirror, I flinched just a little as I saw one of those big, pregnant, brown mouses barreling towards me. At the last moment, it veered to my right, to the right turn lane, and scampered around the corner. And as I looked ahead, more were aiming at me in pairs, then in single file, again in pairs. Aiming right for me, then quickly veering to their left and scampering off to my right. Big, brown, pregnant mice. As in the advertising slogan, “What can Brown do for you?”

Hordes of big, brown mice. Mice that had scurried just hours before, into the mazes of the Washington-Baltimore corridor, laden with the widgets of the workplaces from the where-with-alls from around world. And now, scurrying back to their nest, re-loaded with more widgets of the workplaces for the where-with-alls of the world. For the UPS distribution center was just off to my right.

Vespers was an entrenching experience. A young man, so seasoned in the ways of the world, telling of his experience as a mouse in a maze. His elusive search for the cheese.

He had let it be know to the Region Coordinator, that he was shy, that he was hesitant to tell his story. And as the moments went by without his arrival, it was not hard to become a believer in his assessment.

But there were terrible thunderstorms going through the Metro area. His “chauffeur” had difficulty getting him there.

Quickly he launched into his vespers program. A planned program of chained proof texts on the fundamental Seventh-day Adventist beliefs. But the Kinship Coordinator whispered to him to at least introduce himself. That some there might not know who he is.

And for the next hour he did.

The story of a mouse. A maze. Of cheese.

The telling of incidents. Of misunderstandings, of rejection, of freedom, of bondage, of lifestyle, of pain, of trouble, of the law. Of chemical substances and the substance of the mind.

He spoke with joy, with enthusiasm, optimism. Laughter came so easily. Yet the circumstances of his life are frightening.

He told of his experience with the SDA fundamental belief number 30: Your guardian angel is prohibited from accompanying you into the salons of seduction and sedition of the supposedly salacious sallies of the satisfaction of sin.

And he conceded his belief in that principle. But he shared with us that angels fear to tread where the Holy Spirit is free to go.

And the Holy Spirit found him bombed in the best of the gay bars in town.

He described himself as a mouse in a maze. The cheese, always being so elusive.

But, Adam, my new young friend . . . you exuberantly told us tonight that you have indeed found The Cheese. And you confessed to us the miracle of your still being alive. For by all logic and circumstances, the alley-ways in your maze should have consumed you. Some cheese-laden trap should have sprung for you long ago.

And as I had previously patiently waited and watched those big, brown mice, scurrying through the entrenchment of my little oblivious maze back at that UPS distribution point, I had no idea what was about to come.

For I have now met a most beautiful second mouse.

The Refectory Manager

On Certainties and Convictions

Timing is everything.

What an inspirational UU church service I attended this morning! And as I sat there in somewhat shock as to what was happening, I was wondering to whom could I write of this experience, and how would I describe it.

I have just now arrived home . . . and to your email of weighty questions that are near unanswerable.

[The email was from my young friend in Belgrade, http://saunterersjournal.blogspot.com/) And like many of his notes, this told again of his spiritual journey, his questions, the conflict between being spiritual and being religious, and the search for “conviction and clarity” within his belief system.]

But of the UU service today . . . April Fools! As serious as the service was, the whole thing was a spoof.

Undoubtedly you have listened to Garrison Keillor and Prairie Home Companion. So you would know how he picks on the Unitarians with his folksy jokes. Except they are not jokes! They are true.

Unitarian-Universalist church services are begun with a little ceremony of “lighting the chalice.” A very short little reading about why the chalice is being lit for this occasion. And the chalice lighting designee for this morning was a man of about my anthropometrics and demographics, and his recitation was focused on the word “light.” The light of spring, daylight saving time this morning that does not actually save day light, the light in the story of Genesis, many other pithy little sayings that include the word “light,” “Jeannie with the light brown hair . . . “ and the minister was now shoving him from the pulpit with his final staggering explosive “Bud Lite.”

From that moment forward, everything was a mock of hilarity.

The choral music, Yiddish music from somewhere that was very funny. And as the minister introduced it, she was telling of how she will advertise the name of a sermon several weeks in advance, but sometimes will change her mind at the last moment. Except that causes problems with the choir when they have already been rehearsing music for a different topic, which, she said, the topic for today was originally to do with lent and Passover and stuff like that, hence the “Hebrew” music that we would now hear.

Of course there were the Unitarian jokes. About the man who finally had saved up his small fortune and bought the car of his dreams. A brand, spankin’ new Lambargini. And so he wanted this new treasure in his life to be blessed. He went to the Catholic parish, knocked on the door, and the priest asked what he could do for him. The man said that he had just purchased a new Lambargini and would the priest be willing to bless it for him. “Of course,” the priest responded, “ but what is a Lambargini?” The man then realized that a blessing from this priest was not what he wanted or needed, so he found himself at a synagogue. Knocked on the door and the rabbi asked him what he could do. The man went through his request again, with the same kind of response. Disappointment. Where and how could he get his car blessed. He had heard of the Unitarian-Universalists and so found one of their churches. Again, he knocked on the door and was met by the minister. After going through his little history again, the minister remarked about how wonderful a car a Lambargini was and how he wished that he could own such a beautiful machine, but what was a blessing!

But in all seriousness, it is so unfortunate that there is no UU congregation in your area. I suspect you would find it to be a welcoming congregation for a number of reasons.

If you read the little story about pots and kettles on my blog, you might recognize those seven questions that I asked at the end as being very loose applications of the seven principles of the Unitarian-Universalist organization. They are printed on the back cover of most every UU church order-of-service program.

But your concern about “but I sure would like to be able to speak with more certainty and clarity about my own convictions . . .”

As it was “joked” in the service today, some people go to their religion to find the answers. UU’s go to ask the questions.

And the jokes continued about the “uncertainty” within in the belief patterns of the members. But even though the quips resulted in laughter, the message was dead serious.

UU is a “religion,” if one must even call it that,” that thrives on the freedom and the responsibility of the individual to question and to believe what is reasonable and rational to them at this point in their personal spiritual journey.

And even though I am not quite a member of the UU church here, I will turn the question back to you . . . “why would you even want to speak with more certainty and clarity about your own convictions?

It is not that you shouldn’t have convictions . . . it is that convictions are living, dynamic, and “evolve” over one’s life-time of experience. And so I now find comfort in that uncertainty and vision in that ambiguity.

And yes, I am ashamed that I spoke with “certainty and clarity about my own convictions” at a certain point in my life. For those certainties and clarities, I now see, were “certainties and clarities” within a paradigm that I now find an anathema.

And so you closed your note by sharing your intention to indulge in one of life’s greatest pleasures, to sip your cup of tea.

And if you have more than 10 types of herbal teas in your pantry, then you are already a Unitarian-Universalist!

Take care, my young sauntering friend (http://saunterersjournal.blogspot.com/) for your convictions and certainties are but steps in your journey.

The Refectory Manager