Like all deaths, there was loss, but also new life
(My name is Jen, and I write rather vulnerable and personal stories based on my lived experience, in the hopes that others will also find community, love and peace. Follow me or share your thoughts in the comments.)
I’ve been studying the Tao Te Ching for several years now, in a personalised daily study of a single hexagram from the I Ching. Over the years, the gentle and natural teachings of this ancient philosophy have begun to permeate my thinking and rewire my Western and Mormon patterns.
One of the metaphors I love the most is the idea of the uncarved block. That we, each of us, are an uncarved block of wood when we enter this life, and it is through living life and all its experiences that we allow the extraneous to be whittled away, until all that is left is the truth of us.
As each of us have different bodies, genetics, and life experiences, the truth of each of us will be different. This models nature in the abundance of plant and animal life, the incredible diversity we see around us, and how each fits into the overall sphere of the whole: predators and prey, flowers and insects, man and nature.
So it stands to reason that each of us will become a different shape, as life continues to carve away all that is superfluous and unnecessary. And, if we allow this carving, this shaping, we will see how our particular shape also fits into the sphere of the whole, as we unleash our true talents and abilities in service to the collective.
Why is it, then, that many of us are so against this carving, this shaping? Whether through culture or a religious upbringing, many people are told exactly what shape they should be, and that any other shape is an affront to God or to society. There are many many people who find comfort and solace in merging completely with their dominant society or religion, and restricting themselves from certain types of life experiences. Cradled within a bubble of like-mindedness, it becomes easier to ‘other’ people who are not the same, to defend against the ‘other’, and even, in the extreme, to attack or try to convert them.
But for those of us who are ‘other’, who were born ‘other’, this narrative does not serve us. I know. I was born ‘other’, yet raised in a high-demand religion (cult, actually). I was born lesbian, yet I spent the first thirty years of my life denying this most vital aspect of myself (I call it vital because, while sexual orientation does not make up all of what life is, it is a core truth that leads to love or the lack thereof, and all love is divine). I denied it because I was taught, from birth, that acting on my feelings of love and attraction for my own gender was sinful and evil, and only through chastity and abstinence could I go to heaven.
My coming-out story, while powerful, is not nearly as powerful as my coming-to-myself story, which has taken place over the last handful of years. I embraced my true nature, rejected the teachings of my Mormon upbringing (becoming apostate), and began allowing life to carve me with all sorts of experiences. Throughout this journey, I came to love myself deeply, and to love both my past and my dreams. I have a great deal of hope within me, for myself, for my culture and society, and for Mother Nature.
Life recently carved away one of my hopes. It is a shaving on the ground. The space is open to the elements now, an open wound. I didn’t know it before, but it was a false hope, and now it’s gone.
I always hoped my religious family would love me unconditionally. That they would see beyond my orientation, beyond the choices they don’t agree with, beyond my supposed apostasy. I hoped they wouldn’t simply tolerate me and my lifestyle, but accept me completely, just as I am.
That is the hope that died.
Truth is more important than hopes and wishes. Until I see this truth, my progress is blocked. And sometimes inner harmony and peace comes without justice.
It is my firm belief that all things are equal in the eyes of nature, and it is unnatural to think that one way is the only way. After all, if all humans carry the seed of the Divine within them (and we do), then every human has a direct and personal path to God irrespective of dogma and religion. I do not need to be a Mormon to be saved, despite what they think. (I’m not a princess in a tower, I don’t need saving at all, IMHO.)
To my Mormon family, this is my apostasy speaking (or Satan’s influence on me). To them, wickedness never leads to happiness. And I am considered wicked for leaving the church, embracing my gay-ness, and leading a life focused on my own dreams and wishes. I am selfish, disrespectful, and ungrateful (their words). If I repent, come back to church, and deny myself the love my heart craves, then I can be loved fully not only by my family, but by Jesus himself. (See ‘Divine Love’ and how Mormons perceive love as conditional and based on obedience.)
I always hoped I would be loved and celebrated by them, for being who I am, just as I am, in all my flawed and messy glory.
That hope died. Abruptly. Painfully.
Peace eventually came, as balm over this wound. Peace borne of my many meditation sessions, love notes to myself, close friendships I enjoy, and the fulfilment that comes from serving others in my profession.
My hope for my family’s love and validation led to expectations, which led to disappointment. Perhaps it was a false hope. Real or false, it’s gone now.
It’s not so terrible a thing when hope dies. Sometimes hope is misplaced. It’s like telling a terminal cancer patient to just stay positive and strong, when, in fact, it’s better to accept reality, no matter how painful it is.
False or misplaced hope can be dangerous. It can lead to procrastination or avoidance of necessary actions. When it is inevitably shattered, it leads to emotional turmoil, frustration, and disappointment. False hope can prevent people from pursuing alternative paths or making necessary adjustments in life (such as leaving a toxic relationship). Hope can turn into unrealistic expectations and then broken promises. In some cases, false hope can lead to dangerous behaviours, such as refusing treatment when one thinks they will heal naturally.
False or not, a little death of hope isn’t automatically a bad thing. Truth is revealed, in the little carving of the block that continues on and on with every experience. Reality may not be pleasant, but at least it is seen more clearly.
I open to the possibilities that emerge now that truth has been recognised.
I open to peace.
I open to truth.
I open to love.
Follow or subscribe for more stories, and to stay connected with me on my journey to become an end-of-life doula. Hugs and love to you all.
