Breakfast at Epiphany

*Epiphany-a sudden intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence.

*Encarta Dictionary

Before I write another word, I’d like to extend gratitude for the inspiration behind this essay to my Aunt Dawn’s partner, Graham. He’s responsible for most of this. I’ll get back to him in a moment, but I just want credit to go where credit is due.

So yeah, life’s been happening at a pretty crappy pace lately. A development that nicely compliments, well let’s just say the pace of the last several years. Which have certainly provided endless lessons in patience, hope against hope and resulted in my saying, in rapid repetition, the serenity prayer. A lot. All that “change what you can, accept what you can’t, and try to know the difference” stuff. My issue isn’t addiction. It’s life. Which it also just so happens I’m addicted to. None of this is probably a ground breaking revelation to anyone who knows me, so pardon me for stating the obvious.

Although I can’t exactly quit the here and now- I can visualize it. Read: My beautifully orchestrated final salute- at least in a Flannery O’ Connor sort of way. And don’t even patronize me. You know exactly what I’m talking about here. I’m referring to one of those moments we’ve all had. Those instances of ultimate self pity that precisely define the kind of thought traffic that we’d never admit to anyone. At least not while sober. Those wonderfully indulgent times when yes sport fans, we visualize our own funeral.

We think about what hymns and songs our relatives would insist on playing. Who would actually show up? Would there be an altar call for the unsaved? Who would genuinely miss our presence in their lives? Who’d be just as fake and two-faced at our demise as they were when we were still living?

Better yet, when we daydream about our own funeral, we can visualize the paybacks bound for the sh*theads sure to be in attendance. You know the type-those who’ve screwed us over, lied about us, stole those we loved, tried to steal us, or created unnecessary drama. Now that we’re gone how crappy would they feel? Especially considering that it was so too late to take back whatever they’d said or done to ensure that the looming karmic bitch slap with their name on it was a done deal.

That would teach them.

And isn’t writing all this just the most empowering crutch? Without an active audience to hold an author accountable, it’s very easy to get wrapped up, self-absorbed and way too far into one’s head. I try not to go there very often. I only allow myself one funeral a month these days. Two- if I’ve been surrounded by a double dose of dorks. Lately, I’ve also held much smaller tributes and only allowed my worst enemies to attend these mental memorials. I think this helps God make sure that the lightning strikes are that much more accurate.

Anyway, welcome to the short-bus picture of exactly where my head was at last week with the addition of these themes. Toward the end of my time on the coast, while spending the day with my sister’s family, I pondered the inconvenience of getting another year older. I also dreaded a funeral I was about to attend. I really wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this particular relative and face the reality that an entire generation of beloved personal hero’s was nearly gone. I wasn’t exactly basking in a “oh happy day” celebratory mood.

So as God would have it, when your in your sh*tiest state of mind is often when some sort of really unpleasant and embarrassing lesson is in order. So, in the midst of picking up some supplies for Kelcy’s new puppy, I received an all postage paid reality check. This epiphany happened as I found myself hanging out with my aunt’s life partner, an English guy named Graham.

Dawn had just cooked us the most incredible waffles and huckleberry syrup breakfast when Graham asked me if I’d like to stroll down his beach. Graham, the ruggedly handsome guy, whom you see pictured below, is one of the most approachable men I know. This is a bit surprising considering he’s also one of the most accomplished hair stylists in the country and that he’s from pretentious England. Yet I don’t get any of that proper Emma Thompson, rigorous expectation etiquette and accent stuff from him. Graham is really down to earth. He should be from Montana or Berkeley or the West Village. Maybe his soul is from these places.

Graham has plenty of what folks call life experience. He once owned a great salon in Pike Place Market, he knows everybody who is anybody, and junior hair stylists pay big bucks to be mentored by him. Currently Graham’s manages a high end, exclusive salon in Bellevue’s tony “Bellevue Square”. The man regularly deals with all the pressures, expectations, and standards of the super beautiful and the mega wealthy.

For some reason he is still sane.

This troubled me.

Graham lives just outside of Kingston, Washington on the Kitsap Peninsula with my Aunt Dawn. They met years ago, at a party in a sauna. Their lives leap frogged over one another for a few decades, or as Graham puts it they each had to learn some life lessons before they’d be ready for one another. They’ve been together now as a couple for nearly a decade.

As a perk of living in a small waterfront community, Graham enjoys regular access to a private beach with a sunny southern exposure, windswept cliffs, and enough quiet, uninterrupted perspective to put a guy like me straight into therapy.

Thank God on this particular day Doctor Graham was in.

My task, thee task these days, and it can be a huge one, is to find joy, beauty and meaning even in the midst of the worst of days. Joy even if you’re slowly losing your sight. Joy even if you keep attending funerals. Joy even if people you care about are facing cancer or failing AIDS medications, or children who seem bound and determined to embrace incarceration. In other words, Joy in life and being alive regardless of what live gives you. Joy. No matter what.

So yeah, I’m trying to focusing on joy these days and finding that it’s way harder than it used to be. Or so it seems. Especially because the way I see things, humanity is failing at everything. There’s year six of Bush Co. There’s Iraq and Iran. There’s AIDS completely skyrocketing into the statistician stratosphere.

Then the wise men, the anointed among us show up and proudly proclaim that the gift of life and the simplicity of each moment is what’s really important. Although I get that on some post recovery, all Enya-all the time level, it’s hardly realistic. Right?

Sure I still try to concentrate on these simple things as best as I can. The warmth and feel of a soft puppy. The chill that travels down my spine when my horse breathes down the back of my neck and his muzzle caresses the back of my baseball hat. Anything involving getting locked up for life in a Coldstone Creamery.

I accept that life’s best gifts are usually really simple.

But that doesn’t exactly make cancer go away now does it?

Usually about this time in my bitchfest someone will ask in a very arrogant way, “Well Timmy have you prayed about it?”

Oh no, you didn’t just go there.

Prayer? You mean talking your ass off for hours at a time into the infinite vortex of Nothingland and waiting for an answer that never seems to come?

Of course I’ve done that! And for the record, I’ve been a real patient prayer during these last few years. I know that many of my fellow gay folk get a really sour taste when it comes to spirituality, Christianity, and anything, anywhere with 12 steps associated with it. I totally comprehend their skepticism. I feel like I’ve got the patent on faithless faith. I’ve done my fair share of whining that dang it, once again, God forgot to send a burning bush my way to point me in the right direction.

I’m still heavy on the doubt, question the path toward a purpose filled life and skeptical of anything involving a mega church.

Yet, I still keep praying.

Many times I even like to listen to others pray so that I can get some pointers. A lot of preachers like to pretend that when they are praying, that gives them license to tell God What He’s Really Thinking, or explain to us What They Think God Should Do. These prayers go something like this:

“Dear Lord, Gracious Father, We know you wish for us good things. Traditional families. A Nation after your own heart. Prayer in Schools. Putting God back into the Constitution. Lord we know that it’s your will that we are Republicans. Lord bless our building fund and lead our hearts to give all that we can to keep the Church Gym Fund in the black. Ensure that our stewardship drive is successful. Lord, help us to remember to keep our boycott of Ford Motor Company and Disney up to date so that we can continue to protect marriage. Lord, thank you for promising us in your word that if we give to you our wealth, our resources, you’ll return these blessings to us at least ten fold.”

Usually this is the part of the prayer where I lose track and visualize putting my last $20 into the offering plate. Hoping that in exchange for my generosity God will send me a new King Ranch Ford F-450 Powerstroke. Crew Cab please.

I listen to people pray because I think that if I’m listening, then maybe God is listening too. In the back of my mind, I like to think that God would be fascinated with whatever manages to hold my attention. It’s that whole “great minds think alike” approach. I keep expecting to read a top ten prayer listing in Christianity Today. Like a countdown list or something. Hosted by Rick Deez of course.

My neice Kelcy is a top ten prayer. She’d dominate the prayer count downs.

Her bedtime prayers are the best. They usually start with “Dear Jesus, Thank you for this mommy, and this daddy, and this Theo (the cat) and Uncle Tim. And Grandma Judy. And this Kelcy. And this food. And this and this…” until she runs out of this’s to add. Finally she concludes her petition with “and all the people say in Jesus Name, Amen.”

My prayers are way more complicated than Kelcy’s. They’d never make the top ten.

Kevin is always telling me that if I insist on stressing about things after I’ve already offered them up to ultimate higher power land, I’m taking it back. I’m trying to control the outcome of my prayers. And I’m trying to control God.

Like duh.

That’s the point of prayer. Doy. Prayer is best defined as helping God to help you best.

Bear with me here. God needed help before. Hello, what do you think angels are for? So I have humbly offered to help God answer my prayers. Especially when outside of my intervention, neither prayer nor God is making headway. Why not offer my professional and expert assistance? “Let Go and Let God” is such a crock.

So God sent an answer. He sent me on a walk with Graham.

Graham is a Buddhist. God can speak through anyone. If I were God, I’d think I’d prefer to speak through the Buddhists. The costs are way less than when he speaks through the Christian Broadcasting Network.

Graham as a messenger is a good choice. He’s a loving guy. Warm, encouraging, he’s always smiling and talking way deeper than I can even think. So we were walking along the beach, watching Kelcy get drug all over the place by their boxer Mazzi. I asked Graham how he could stay sane in such a high pressure job with so many A type personalities all around him.

“This is how” he said.

And then he walked with his rubber boots into the Puget Sound. I walked along side him as he trudged across the rocks and just let the waves slightly wash over his waders. “Do you know how connected I am to everywhere on the planet when I stand here? This water I am splashing through extends all across the planet. Think about that. I am touching the entire planet from right here. And the entire planet is touching me.”

My first thought was, “Great, I’m screwed. I can’t even participate in this spirituality. I can’t swim.”

Graham was still talking and going all Ecclesiastes on me. That whole “there’s a time to dance, be happy, be sad, and laugh and drink and die” stuff. Then he added the other part. The really scary part. Especially if you’re a Rush Limbaugh, or James Dobson, or Jerry Falwell, or Michael Medved, better than anyone else, type.

We are all connected to one another.

Which means Muslim connected to Christian. Jew to Pagan. Democrat to Republican to Communist to Socialist. Gay to Straight. The ocean, in Graham’s view, represents our interconnectedness. The land, the sea, the air-it’s all a gift. That life is one giant wash cycle, and that those scrubbing bubbles cleanse us all. We never truly own anything. Life. Property. Soul. Or in my case, our prayers. But the universe binds us to one another in ways that often seem far easier to put into context if you don’t fight these realities.

Sadly, I am a dedicated fighter. I’ve got a lifetime of wounds and scars to prove it.

Together we kept walking. Graham told me about his yard. The one he is slowly creating. About all the rocks he’d hand carried from the beach up to the garden. About the rocks others had carried. How he knew where each person had lovingly placed their treasures and that the garden was the sum total of all those whom he loved. Each addition, each contribution served as a mile marker of sorts. Gifts pointing to all those who’d spent time with him. Their touch, their presence, their laughter still remained even if the donor was thousands of miles away.

We conversed, Graham and I, in a free flowing dialogue. Following behind Kelcy, we slowed to a child’s pace as she picked up seashell after seashell. I took pictures hoping they’d turn out. Graham walked in the water, gathering up serenity. He, always smiling and laughing, content with the pace of things. The deep blue skies and premature spring warmth contrasted the snowcapped peaks that rose from the sea in every direction. A strange new purpose accompanied our journey even as the erosion from the December storms jutted abruptly from the sandstone cliffs and lent an air of uncertainty to everything. The precariously perched Madrona Trees hung suspended above us. Graham talked about the movement of waves and rocks and time. All of these things were just as they were meant to be, from the ripple of the waves falling before us, to the Native American sites we visited portraying centuries old traditions, to the dance of dog and child careening across an empty beach.

We lost track of time. We lost my cell phone. We lost some of the shells Kelcy kept putting into my jacket. But we found ourselves. We found time to examine the planet, our dreams, and our fears. We found a perfect moment. I accepted that the best answers to prayer are often the ones that go unanswered.

Upon returning to the house, I produced a special rock I’d collected for Graham’s yard. Kelcy donated her shells. And under Graham’s watchful eye, each of these treasures found a home. Albeit a timeless one.