Looking Beyond the Pro-Forma of Life

In the early years of my marriage, I occasionally wrote in my journal about my struggle with homosexuality – though I invariably, at some point or another, would go through and redact these passages for reasons I explain below. My journal was reflective of much of the rest of my life:  keeping it was a commandment (of sorts), so I sought with zeal to fulfill that commandment.  

Keeping a journal is something that President Spencer W. Kimball - who was president of the Mormon Church when I joined in 1983 - greatly emphasized as a commandment. It sprung out of a Mormon tradition to be a “record-keeping people” which finds its origins, in part, in the mythic tradition of the Book of Mormon. Though still taught in the LDS Church, however, journal writing (like other things taught by President Kimball, such as the importance of gardening and the abominable nature of homosexuality) is not emphasized today the way it was 30-40 years ago.

My journal was voluminous; I kept it faithfully for over 25 years and it filled several shelves of binders. However, it was, generally speaking, as dry as the paper on which I wrote, devoid of life. I was going through the motions; even though I loved to write, this love was masked and controlled by my overarching desire to “do what is right” and fulfill the commandment, regardless of whether doing so brought joy.  

I also always had President Kimball’s admonition in mind to only write things that would be edifying to my descendants when, someday, they would read my magnum opus and find therein inspiration as they faced struggles in their own lives. This of course only encouraged me to be more wooden and stilted in my journal-writing. I omitted many thoughts and feelings, e.g., those dealing with the constant marital difficulties my ex-wife and I experienced and those dealing with homosexuality (and redacting those I occasionally wrote). I also colored what I did record to be suitably appropriate for other eyes to possibly read someday.

I came to see how journal-writing was a metaphor for much of my adult life after joining the Church.  I sought with zeal to fulfill the commandments, regardless of whether doing so brought me joy.  Frankly, it never brought me joy. 

Of course, I told myself that there truly was “real” joy underneath the layers of unhappiness that I only dimly allowed myself to feel. I told myself that if I applied myself with even more fervor to living the “Mormon life,” I would indeed experience the joy and happiness that comes from “living the Plan of Happiness.” If I only persisted in applying myself day in, day out, the mere act of doing so would produce – somewhere, sometime – happiness. 

Until that happened, I had to exercise faith and “do my duty” (as we men were constantly admonished to do), always living my life for others, for externals, believing that in doing so, my internal self would – in some mysterious and indefinable way – be blessed and benefitted and I would find fulfillment and the ever-elusive purpose of life (according to Nephi):  to have [experience] joy.

Which brings to me to the second way that journal writing was a metaphor for my life, i.e., President Kimball’s admonition that we write only those things that could be edifying. Even in recording the things of our soul, we were encouraged to not be in touch with our feelings, with our real selves, but to put up the “Mormon wall” between the person whom we were supposed to be and that whom we really are. 

Furthermore, members of the LDS Church are encouraged to live for the benefit of others, their lives finding their truest and most sublime meaning only with reference to what we do for others. There is no value, per se, in merely being, or in our unique individuality. One's purpose is defined in terms of doing, and that doing must meet a suitability test.

And so, my dry (mainly dry) journal was really a reflection of and metaphor for my (mainly) dry life.  

About the time I came out, I stopped keeping a journal and instead took up blogging. On my blog, I truly did write the “things of my soul.” Will it be for the “profit of my children”?  I don’t know; perhaps. It will most definitely (I hope) convey to them – or at least some of them - should they ever read it, that their father finally became a real person and set out on a journey for true meaning and authenticity after living most of his adult life as a cardboard cutout; and that he sought – finally – to give expression to his true thoughts and feelings. 

I have continued to blog over the years since then, but I also started keeping a journal again after I met Mark. He had kept a (real) journal for years and inspired me to begin anew. This time around, however, the journal would not for the benefit of my children nor would it be kept to fulfill any kind of commandment. Rather, I would keep it willingly as a means of meditating upon my life, of discovering myself, of coaxing answers and eliciting questions.  

That was the theory, but I have still had to work at overcoming a legacy of merely looking at life instead of seeing it, of merely chronicling life rather than querying it. I rediscovered, when recently in San Francisco, that blogging helps me to do these things. As I wrote in my journal, 

"Blogging forces me to look beyond the pro-forma of life, to behold it, to engage with it. In that engagement is found life, insight, truth and humanity. In the past, I have told myself that I needed to 'stop writing about life and start living it'; but I have realized that, for me, that is not true. In order for me to see and truly live life, I need to write about it. And so I shall continue to try."

Of Coming Out, Anniversaries and Invictus Pilgrim

Four years ago this month, I began the process of coming out. Every year since that time, when October rolls around, I reflect on that process - a process that is still very much ongoing.

I have reminded myself recently of what my thoughts and feelings were in those initial scary months that followed a decision I made to at least come out to myself - to stop beating my head against a granite wall that had stood in front of me for 40 years. That reminder has come from reading the blog that I started shortly after making that decision. I chose to blog anonymously (for obvious reasons) under the pseudonym of "Invictus Pilgrim." Anonymity allowed me to frankly write about what I was experiencing and to protect myself as I did so.

I chose the name Invictus Pilgrim for several reasons.  First, I was very fond of the poem Invictus (which means “Unconquered” in Latin), written by 19th century poet and atheist William Ernest Henley. The words of this poem expressed the resolve I felt to become the master of my fate and the captain of my soul: 

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed ...

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

However, though determined to leave the closet forever, I realized I was very much a pilgrim on a journey. I didn't know what my destination would be. It was the journey that was important. 

Thus the persona of Invictus Pilgrim was born. When I first started my blog, I could not have foreseen where it would go and what it would mean, not only to me but to others as well.  I began writing as a means to free long-imprisoned thoughts, to express long-suppressed emotions and to explore long-forbidden lands in my psyche and soul.  I could not and did not foresee the extent to which my writing would not only prove therapeutic for me, but also expressive of others’ unexpressed thoughts and emotions.

As I have been re-reading my blog, I have found that I have been reminded of so many things that are still pertinent to me today, going on four years later. Then, it was fresh and raw. Much has transpired over the ensuing years, but I have found that those words I and others wrote have inspired me today to continue that journey of seeking authenticity, self-knowledge and self-love.

I closed Invictus Pilgrim some time ago for various personal reasons. I have been recently re-reading it because I have decided to write a book based on the blog. I had attempted this endeavor once before, but I wasn't ready to do so psychologically and emotionally. 

Now the time seems right. It is challenging for me to read some of what I wrote because of the pain associated with that period. But I have also frankly found it inspiring to me to read today what my fledgling out gay self was expressing and writing during the year following October 2010.

Yes, the time has come. Wish me luck.

Rocky Mountain Weekend

I had just been saying to my daughter last week how I've always wanted to go a cabin in the mountains or woods for a fall weekend. Sitting by the fire, reading. Taking walks. Writing. Just being.  There just seemed something so quintessentially comforting and relaxing about it. Not that we couldn't be at home and do the same things; but at a cabin there wouldn't be the temptation of going to the gym or yoga or a movie or watching some television.

This weekend, we are having the opportunity to fulfill my long-held desire. Mark needed some recovery time from his outpatient surgery, so we decided to drive to Colorado to visit friends and family. Our first stop was the cabin outside Steamboat Springs that belongs to the family of a friend of ours from Salt Lake. It so happened that he and friend of his had previously decided to head up the same weekend to close the cabin for the winter.

We arrived in late afternoon, and as we enjoyed cocktail hour, we saw some elk saunter across the meadow pictured in the lead photo. The setting sun set the tops of the trees on fire and tinged the clouds above. That evening, we listened as Mike and his friend Rich jammed, Mike on his banjo and providing vocals with Rich on his guitar. It was a fun evening topped off with pecan pie.

I slept soundly and awoke to dawn creeping over mountain tops, trees and meadows. This was the scene from the balcony off our room:

We enjoyed doing those things that morning that I had dreamed of. I wrote and read while Mark painted. He is actually a talented artist, though he hadn't in the past had the time or the desire to devote time and attention to developing his talent. Now that he is fully retired, he has picked up the brush in earnest. This is a little watercolor he did that morning as he sat looking out the window.

From Steamboat, we headed a few hours south to Fraser where Mark's brother and his family - Tim, Marie and Sophie - live. This was the scene that greeted us as we stepped out onto their deck.

It is now Sunday afternoon. We have been having snow flurries off and on throughout the day. I took these pictures this morning just outside Tim and Marie's home.

Right now, I'm sitting by the fire in Tim and Marie's living room, looking out the window and watching it lightly snow. Marie is upstairs, Sophia is in her room during homework. Mark is in the other room painting while his brother works on his computer. The dogs are scattered about. I take a deep breath, breathing in the now, loving life.

Outing the Writer in Me

I am proud of my three older daughters.  I love each one of them (though two are currently estranged from me), and there are many reasons for which I am proud of them. Their strength. Their resiliency. Their independent-mindedness. Their musical talents. Their beauty.

For now, however, I want to focus on only one trait that they all share, of which I am extremely proud: they are all gifted writers.  If there is a "writer's gene," I'd like to think they inherited it from me.

The other day, I wrote a long letter to one of my daughters from whom I estranged, but ultimately decided not to send it. I was telling her some things about me that I'm sure she doesn't know.  I've decided to incorporate in this post some of what I wrote to her.   

There was a time in my life when there was nothing I wanted more than to be a writer.  When I was in third grade, I wrote my first “novel” (a “book” as I called it), collaborating with a classmate who drew pictures to go with it.  It was a mystery novel, a product of my fascination with the Hardy Boys series. Unfortunately, that manuscript is long since gone; it would have been fun to read it.

Me in Third Grade

When I was in 5th grade, I was placed in a “gifted program” at our school where those chosen met separately on a regular basis and pursued their interests through various projects.  One of my projects was a series of short stories. When I was in 8th grade, I worked on and wrote for our school newspaper.

In my sophomore year in high school, I took “Advanced English,” which was geared toward students who showed a particular affinity for and ability with writing and literature.  In that year, I wrote several pieces, including a couple of longer short stories that I still have.  My teacher inspired me and encouraged me to pursue my dream of being a writer.  I looked into colleges, and selected one in Illinois that was known for its creative writing program.

But my sophomore year was also the year in which my parents’ divorce was finalized and my dad moved his business to another state, over 400 miles away. I desperately craved my father’s approval and love.  So when I shared my plans with him and he said that a career in writing wasn’t “practical,” I believed him.  I think there was also another reason, which I describe below.

Though I took literature and journalism classes my junior and senior years, was editor of both the school newspaper and the yearbook, wrote regular columns for the newspaper and won several essay contests (two at the state level), I abandoned any plans to pursue writing and never took a single English class in college. 

Me working on layout of my high school newspaper
with my Journalism teacher

Perhaps not surprisingly, however, once I graduated from law school, I gravitated rather quickly to an area of the law that required a lot of good writing, i.e., preparing public disclosure documents for public companies. I also wrote several books about the history of my family, about our adopted children and their birth families and about my older biological children.

Upon coming out over two years ago, I started blogging.  One of my earliest posts was entitled “Outing the Writer in Me.” In this post, I wrote about another reason that probably played into my decision to abandon an “artsy” career. I also wrote of the joy that I felt being reunited with this old love:

“I have never blogged (about anything) before, but I have to say that I am finding the experience of creating this blog not only tremendously liberating, but also stimulating.  It is liberating in that I am describing events and giving voice to thoughts and emotions that, for the most part, I have never shared with anyone else, and that have been repressed and a source of secret shame and self-loathing for most of my life. I have finally given myself permission to express these thoughts, to relive these emotions, to describe these experiences, and I find this process not only liberating, but also affirming.  

"It is also stimulating, in that I am writing about these things for the first time in my life. I feel that to write something is to affirm and give form, shape and texture to a memory, a feeling, a thought, then hold these up to the light and analyze and perhaps even admire them.  This process stimulates the creative juices in me and makes me feel like I am getting in touch with an integral part of who I am – not just my gay identity, but also that part of me that is a writer.  

"But this passion for writing died within me as I advanced in my teenage years.  Like other aspects of what I assume to be my true self, this interest in self-expression was too closely intertwined with that other aspect of my real self that I wanted desperately to deny and repress – my gay self.  In repressing my homosexuality, I feel I also repressed other parts of my true self that might have affirmed or risked exposure of my sexual identity.  

"I guess this is what I have tried to express in other posts:  This journey for me right now is not just about my homosexuality.  It is also – particularly because of the added trauma of child abuse – an effort to recover my lost self that I believe retreated deep inside me when I was a small child in order to protect itself from abuse, then was further repressed during what is often a great awakening in a boy’s life:  puberty and its aftermath.   

"So now, I am outing the writer in me.  He may not be a very good writer, but he is a part of me – the authentic, real me, and I welcome his coming.”

I don't know if I'll ever publish anything.  I think it is far more likely that I will someday see and read books written by one or more of my daughters.  But I am going to hazard a guess and say that the reason that they write is the same reason I write, which was expressed on a sign I saw the other day in an art supply store, with which I will close.