Compassion is the Mainline

I'm sitting in my apartment that has no heat. I have my new snowpants on. I still have enough internal heat from sleep to sustain me, more than likely for 1/2 hour. To my right is a nearly finished Dunhill. To my left is a freshly made Espresso Americano with cream and honey. And my cat that moves all over my half lotus legs and my glasstop desk where I sit and type.

My hands have started to get cold. The right more than the left, as the right is my smoking hand.

The other morning I woke with the question of whether I should don jacket and respectable pants to go to church. I essentially went on Christmas Eve, though it was not a regular service and it was not of the denomination nor structure I was accustomed to.

The last time I went to church was when I was 17. As I had attended nearly every week for several years, there were certain elements of proper Anglican ceremony that had been ingrained in me.

Be quiet.
Be reverent.
Look like you're here to worship.
Try not to make obscene, though natural, body noises.
In essence, don't be like yourself.

I was invited to attend a church production of Christmas. It was an original musical starring John Q. as the Prophet. It was perfomed at the Unionville Alliance church in Richmond Hill, a borough about 45 minutes in bad weather and Christmas Eve traffic jams, outside of downtown Toronto.

I borrowed the car from Ack, the ex-husband/best friend. The weather system created some fierce snow and icefall over the last 48 hours. He was worried about my potentially getting into an accident. I don't fear oblivion. I do fear being maimed. Pain.

I arrived, unscathed. I was surprised with the size of the church and the amount of parking that was available. The double lot was as large as that of a shopping mall. The lot was full. All at once I felt surprise, surprise, surprise.

I honestly thought, even knowing that most of the US had voted Republican, thus rendering it a majority of Believers in any number of faiths, religion had become rather passé. Douglas Coupland's quote on Generation X, a category I fall into, pontificated, This is the first generation raised without God.

When I walked in, the entrance was flanked with coat racks. My suspicion of having my coat stolen by a Born Again Christian was unfounded, but it was something that was at the back of my head. I justified keeping it on by telling myself I'd grown used to cold churches, hard benches and general discomfort when brought to prayer.

This was a very warm church, filled with smiling people of all ages and as colourful as Sesame Street. Everyone was represented. This was Canada incapsulated. A woman of perhaps 56 years greeted me warmly.

Her words were:

Welcome.
Thank you for coming.
Happy Christmas.
As she held my hand.

When I walk into a store, and Payless is the worst for this, I am bombarded with a succession of “hellos” from the start. As I'd taken enough sales seminars in my past, it is my understanding that these people are, mandated from Whichever Company's H.Q., paid to be friendly, fulfilling a principal guidepost for effective salesmanship. It feels smarmy to me. I don’t believe them.

I judge actors by their ability to unequivacally convince me they are that character they are playing. If I don’t believe them, they are cast in dim shadows of in absentia on those rare occasions when I go to the video store to select an evening's entertainment.

I believed everything she said. She said it with the most love and earnestness I'd felt in a very long time. She said it like I say most things to most people. My reaction, though outwardly gracious, was mixed in feelings. I immediately understood, at that moment, why people chose faith. There is total acceptance. They don't care where you've been or what you've done. They don't care that you've hurt others because chances are you've been hurt and it was just a lashing out. They worship Jesus, He who forgave - and often.

In an instant I felt as though I was singled out, which I happen to be quite often because of how I look and how I present, but this time it was different. She knew I'd never before come there, to worship, or otherwise. It was as if she could see the light inside me, the love that I possess.

I was admittedly scared. I felt targeted. I felt like they wanted to convert me. To be one of them. Signs everywhere were placed announcing, Hot Apple Cider. Please have some before you go. There was a suspicion inside me that considered the cider tainted. A Jonestown harkening. I did not help myself to any apple cider.

I chose a seat in the second row of pews. Center stage, right. This was a new-fangled church with drywall, central heating ductwork, dusty rose wall to wall carpeting and matching upholstery on the bench pews. The stage was decorated in Punch and Judy fashion. A once miniaturised version of a puppet playhouse though, as if with a wave of a wand, magically enlarged.

The "opening act" was a group of 5 singers in chevron formation. Again most races and age groups were represented. Omitted were East Indians, small children, the elderly, Natives. Fronting was a black woman who sang in the style of Whitney Houston. The others were back-up vocalists used as support to young Whitney. They all held MICROPHONES, something I was never used to, and they all DANCED. Again, something I was not used to. The congregation was asked to stand and sing some Christmas carols with the Fab Five on stage.

I sang.
I laughed out loud.
I sang some more.
I thought this was ridiculous.
I continued singing.
I continued laughing some more.
Then I got caught up in the moment and thought: This was marvellous.
I alternated from soprano to alto.

I'd just discovered another method of collective euphoric religious alacrity.

Song.
Lift your voices up!

The minister stepped up to center stage. After a few words of welcome to the invited guests that were attending the play, he made the most audacious statement: Something you hear tonight will touch you, individually, by the end of the play's close. It was as if a spell had been cast. The statement made me tear up.

I was instantly captured by one of the performers. Dallas, as I learned later, was her name. She was pointing at an image projected on the wall of a Tudor style house; cream shutters, black gloss paint on the door, white picket gated fence with a wreath on it. She used the gate as a metaphor for the position of our hearts. Locked. Impenetrable. This was something Dallas understood. This is something The Comrade understood.

I understand the armament of the soul and of the heart as a protective mechanism for potential pain suffered. I also understand that to keep it protected by keeping it closed doesn’t actually work. Nothing stands a chance to get in, good or bad. Slowly it’s being opened, bit by bit; sounds of creaking minimised by the juice of love. How it’s being opened is rather interesting, to me anyway. I find people that suffer. As much as I didn’t want to, I cried. As much as it's surprised me, I've been crying quite a lot during the last 48 hours.

For months I'd been searching for Son, Ambulance's new album, Key. No one has heard of this band. Though I'd been encouraged to order it online, I kept a vigil of finding it, or it finding me, when the time was right. Months passed. I never forgot about it. I'd heard the track "Paper Snowflakes" on Indie Pop Rocks once and fell in love with the song. On Christmas Eve, a day notorious for last minute frantic shoppers, I decided I felt like CD shopping. I wasn't buying Christmas gifts. I decided this year I was going to vanquish all things consumerist. I wanted to buy a few full album disks I'd ripped new beloved singles from, using Limewire as my downloading device. In addition to buying some for myself, feeding my little soul, I chose some of the best current Canadiana Indie Rock as gifts for my new friends in Chicago when I visit in January. This made me happy. I found Blonde Redhead's Misery is a Butterfly LP, an album created during the recovery period after near fatal injury to the singer, at Sunrise Records. This too was a difficult album to find. I not only found it but, after months of searching, I found the Key as well.

I whooped and hollered in the aisle. Half a victory lap in, I was relieved no one really noticed my outburst. They found me on Christmas Eve. This was an excellent gift.

I actively seek music out because it helps me open. It makes me feel. It helps me bring full expression to whatever it is that I'm feeling at the time.

God? I feel so strong. But at the same time I feel so helpless.

On Christmas Eve, through a lovely friend, I found Kolya. He's 24 years old, eloquent, has the wisdom of a sage, understands humanity more than most, is really, really, sick. He had to spend Christmas alone because he wasn't well enough to get on a plane to spend it with loved ones. He thinks this is the first of a potentially short succession of Christmases he will have to spend alone. He might only see 4 or 5 more of them.

I have broken and sprained both of my ankles. Not at the same time. I have had chronic back pain. I have had headaches, heart aches and stomach aches where the only thing I can do is cry to make myself feel better. Maybe to exhaust myself enough to fall asleep. Unconscious, we don't feel pain. I don't feel physical pain now. All my organs perform optimally. My body is in total compliance with my brain's wishes. I have never truly considered my end of days because I was in too much pain. Though it's freezing in here, I know it will one day be warm again. Like all the pain I've endured in the past, this too will pass.

Why is he made to suffer, God?

Maybe it is because he can so succinctly document it. He's erecting a 10 storey strongbox of complex emotion in me. His discovery of "Pain is awareness, the root of all compassion" stuck. Is adhered in indelible ink, then chiseled deep.

Since discovering Kolya, I pray for him at least twice a day. I ask that he doesn't suffer too much. I ask that the pain be minimised. I've even asked that I take some of his burden because I feel so strong, yet so helpless. The only answer I get is to continue to watch over him and to love him.

Kolya has a deep faith. He doesn't ask trite questions like, "Why me?" Not in a conventional way, anyway. Instead he asks essentially, "Why have you chosen me?" He's simply put his faith in a greater power, understanding that perhaps there's a greater purpose for him.

Jason had written a post about the woman who survived an impalement by a 12' fence post. I was interested in finding out what happens to these people that survive these near-fatal accidents, the ones who are spared. Maybe they go on to do great things for humanity. Maybe they sire offspring that will do amazing things. This woman, who less than 3 weeks ago suffered this massive blow, is now walking. Unassisted.

I have a long way to attain the kind of faith Kolya has. But my heart is now radiantly opening, ready to receive. And I'm really happy to be having a more frequent dialogue with God again. I think this was the best Christmas ever.

Amen.