As I grow in my understanding of what it is like to love and accept self, I have become ever more determined not to feel restricted in allowing my thoughts to flow.

So, I want to discuss in this post, the important bodily function of defecation and the effect it has had, on my capacity to think, on my capacity to be present, on my capacity to be me.

I have been intrigued by how my body is in control of my mind at the point at which the need for defecation is present.

The feeling is so urgent and so intense and so immediate that it cannot be ignored! (and if it has to be for reasons of the unavailability of facilities etc, the discomfort and urgency increase until the urge is satisfied)

There has been a tendency, in me to consider my thoughts on a range of issues to have the same urgency for a response – to discharge an opinion, or a view, or an expression of anger  – as if it was a bodily call to defecate.

I have been pondering over the journey of my intake of food through my digestive system.

I’m not a biologist, so no lessons here, but the urgency to defecate starts the previous day with the intake of food, either in solitary of in social circumstances.

The food traverses through my body and nourishes and sustains my basic needs for sustenance, but also my higher level needs to enable me to apply my skills at work, my love at home, my emotional needs to self and my spiritual needs to God.

The urgency of defecation is as a result of a journey, of a process, of a cycle which has sustained me, and this solitary act of discharge, is a culmination of something very very profound and wonderful.

No wonder then, that the immediate aftermath of defecation is one of relief and gratitude and comfort.

How wonderful it would be, if these same feelings were present after the discharge of our thoughts, our opinions our anger and our love into the world – this is only likely to be the outcome, if we consider the process of thought, as well as its discharge.

My next blog will be: You’re Fantastic

William Defoe

In the UK at this time of year, the weather and temperatures are changeable.

As winter, gives way to spring, warmer days emerge and the siege mentality of the long cold dark days, gives way to the hope of something lighter, fresher and warmer.

In early April, the sun came out and shone on us, and gave me the impression that winter was behind us.

I decided to consign my long winter overcoat to its wrappings, and store it in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom for another year.

Suddenly, winter returned and I had to go and retrieve my winter coat after trying to muddle through without it, because it became so cold and wet that I needed again to feel its protection and warmth.

Reaching again for my winter coat, seemed like a backward step, a renegade movement to a period which I had consigned to the past, but actually my action to retrieve it from its wrappings, was to recognise and take action to address my immediate needs.

The seasons are not delivered to us in regimental order, rather they tend to emerge one out of the other over time and the ebb and flow of the weather, particularly the rain in the UK is a law unto itself!.

So it is right, that I should have both my shorts and t-shirt, and my jumpers and winter coat to hand to reflect the reality of the season, and to use this analogy of seasons and weather and clothing to educate my spirit to be ready and able, to cope with whatever the day brings.

My next blog will be: Debenhams 

William Defoe

I have visited the same salon for a haircut, every four weeks, for the last 40 years.

For most of those years a man called Jim has cut my hair.

He shares the same Catholic heritage as me, attended the same schools, although he is older than me by approximately 4 years.

Our usual conversations range from, family to football , to the city we love, to holidays, to marriage “strife”, to politics, to jokes and our conversations invariably involve an element of laughter and silliness.

Last week for my regular haircut, our conversation turned to the topic of male impotence.

I ended up telling him that I was feeling really concerned that my ability to function sexually felt as though it was in decline and it scares the hell out of me.

He says to me, same here, time there was when I had to hide myself behind my school satchel but those days are gone.

I said some of my friends, of a similar age to me (mid-fifties) have lost interest in sex, but I have not and the fear I hold, is that my physical capacity will decline further whilst my mental capacity is left behind and seriously frustrated.

He says, well there is always Viagra – some of my friends use Viagra, but to be honest I think you are worrying about losing something which you have not lost.

He said, you are experiencing a slow down in line with your age, but it should not necessarily mean that you are finished with sex.

If you are concerned, he said, see a doctor.

As I emerged from the salon, I was appreciative of my connection with Jim.

His haircut man-talk in the midst of his general humour and his skill as a hairdresser was a much appreciated exchange, which provided me, in the moment, with the re-assurance that I was in need of.

Slow down doesn’t mean stop.

Stop doesn’t mean end.

It’s good to talk!

My next blog will be: Winter Coat

William Defoe

In recent weeks, since around the time of the new year commencing, I have maintained my distance from several individuals.

The origins of this discourse, are in the busy Christmas period, when my season of goodwill and joy to all men, gave way to one of my most destructive emotional episodes which resulted in my daughter and I trading insults and worse.

In respect of my much beloved daughter, I took rapid steps, after a cooling off period, to repair the damage and try to explain with as much sincerity and affection and love that I could, that she means the world to me, but I am fragile at times and need to be loved too.

My wife happened to tell me that she thought that our next door neighbours may have been affected by the row, and they have been acting cool towards her.

I emerged from my car one day after these remarks, and I experienced a similar coolness and the result has been an inner response of a complete and utter shutdown to any attempt to communicate with them.

I have this kind off attitude which runneth, that hell will freezeth over before I make any attempt first to speak.

Silly, silly, foolish, attitude.

Similarly, I had a few words with a member of the choir over a request he made of me to call a mutual friend on his behalf which I refused to do.

He and I have been fine since the exchange, but his wife cast me a glance – I say a glance of poison – and I felt my body stiffen and resolve that under no circumstances would I speak or look at her until she had made amends.

Silly, silly, churlish attitude.

In the weeks that followed, keeping up my promise to blank her, I could not be sure that the poison glance had even been directed at me.

Last week, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her walking towards me with intent.

I froze inside, I didn’t know which way to turn, there was no way to avoid the conversation.

It was an olive branch – would I be so kind as to assist her with some new duties she had taken on at church which she knew I was familiar with.

My heart racing, and resisting the ridiculous urge to say that I would not, thankfully responded with politeness and a smile that of course I would be happy to help.

The olive branch was accepted, the impasse broken and to my shame, by her, not me.

And yet, in the hours after the exchange, I wanted desperately to cling on to the hurt and the humiliation of the poison glance and I felt weak for capitulating to her olive branch.

Silly, silly, obstinate attitude.

These feelings of lingering hurt, have there origins in the suffering I experienced as a teenager, struggling to find my identity, struggling to feel safe, struggling to find the acceptance of others whilst not understanding self.

These recent feelings, are a throwback to a less happier time, a time which should have been happier, but I must not allow this type of destructive thinking to cloud my future too.

Olive branch accepted.

Perhaps now, it is time, to extend my own olive branch towards my next door neighbours.

My next blog will be: Haircut Man-talk

William Defoe

I have arranged to visit a local pub with my wife and a couple of friends on Saturday night after we will have attended the Easter Vigil.

I am feeling quite excited about the night out because I will be able to have a glass of beer for the first time in over six weeks and I can hardly wait.

I think that the abstinence I have undertaken from alcohol throughout Lent has taught me how difficult it is to deny myself something which I enjoy, particularly on social occasions.

In a way, it is not the alcohol that I am most looking forward to, it is rather not having this feeling that I am restricted in some way from responding to what I want to do.

I want a beer, but I ask for water.

I want a glass of wine with a special meal, but I ask for juice

I like water

I like juice

I wanted beer

I wanted wine

My wife tells me that she admires my strength and resilience and determination to carry through my intention to deny myself alcohol.

I have been working through my development to be open to all things which my life is calling me to bring forth, so to deny myself anything seems strangely like an anathema to that logic and ideal.

Self denial has taught me that I am capable of denying myself, for a length of time what my mind and body craves for, which is helpful in determining what is likely to be the best choice, where my thinking has reached a fork in the road.

Life involves making choices on a frequent basis, and sometimes the choice for one path is a denial for another path, for example, when we make a vow or a promise to another to be faithful in marriage.

It is not self denial which sustains a marriage, it is love.

It is not self denial which sustains my beliefs, it is faith.

It is through self denial, through my dry lent, that I experience a magnification of the intensity of my love and devotion to Christ, and my faith in His Resurrection.

Happy Easter!

My next blog will be: Olive Branch 

William Defoe

One evening last week, whilst stretched out on my bed in a pair of boxer shorts, watching a film, I became aware of my big toe.

I’m six foot tall and my big toe looked to me as if it was six miles away, but nevertheless connected and an integral part of the relaxation my body was currently undertaking, reclined as it was on a bed, watching a film.

There was a time, when my big toe seemed to me to be much nearer to my head, and I was able to place it squarely in the middle of my forehead, supple as a child, now stiffened out with age.

The proximity of my head to my toe, speaks to me of expanse and range and connectivity over distance.

My toe, with the rest of my feet, are pretty much covered in a sock from moments after I get out of bed, until I remove them as I go back to bed at night.

During that time, my head has commanded my attention and applied its skills and experience and logic to the work that I have had to do, and the thoughts I have been free to think, but my feet have carried my body in the direction that the mind has instructed it to do.

On rare occasions my feet become the focus of my mind, perhaps for a manicure of the nails, or after long physical exertion when blisters need to be dressed and cared for.

This is the week in which Christ kissed His disciples feet, not their heads, their feet, and to me this connection between the head of Christ and the feet of His disciples is a symbolic act of teaching us that our minds are connected to our feet because it is our minds which direct our feet.

My coach used a phrase on my last visit to see her which has been working its way through my understanding, through reflection.

She told me that I had managed to integrated exiled parts of my self in coming to terms with, and finding acceptance for, my sexuality which I had experienced as an inner conflict.

The proximity of my big toe to my head, reminds me to be aware of the proximity of the issues I have exiled from my mind, and the proximity of other people, whom I have often pushed away, to calling them forth, integrating them, loving them, as if they were connected to me head to toe.

My next blog will be: Dry Lent

William Defoe

Last weekend, in response to a direct question from my wife, I told her an untruth.

Later, she asked me the same question and I repeated the untruth, wondering though, why I had lied in the first place and why she was asking the question again.

Well, first of all, what was the question?

“William, that half eaten bar of chocolate in your car, where did you get it from?”

Truthful answer, I bought it.

The answer I gave her on two separate occasions, “a work colleague gave it to me”

Over the weekend, my wife asked me a third time, “William, where did that chocolate come from, but before you answer, I know that you bought it”

Then why ask me?

To see if you told the truth, why did you lie about it?

So here is what I said, in response to her question?

I supposed I lied about it, because it felt in the moment that you asked the question, that you were not entitled to an honest answer.

I perceived in the question a slightly controlling aspect, which to have answered it honestly, would have felt a bit like caving in to intimidation.

Also, my response at a deeper level, was because in fact I felt slightly ashamed and embarrassed that I had purchased and consumed half a bar of chocolate without sharing it with you.

[My wife, loved this bit – we were both laughing and despite my discomfort at being outed, I was enjoying the debate]

“So what was it that made you feel ashamed?”

I think it is a throw back to my childhood, I replied.

When I was a child, with four other siblings, we shared everything and the idea that I would have access to funds to buy and consume a chocolate bar of significance was the stuff of fantasy – I suppose my response to your question has its origins here.

” I knew that you had bought it  – I had seen the receipt, I just wanted to check that you tell me the truth at all times”

My response to her was :-

“Well perhaps I don’t for various reasons, for example, to avoid a confrontation, to protect my privacy, to feel in control, to hide my fears.”

But I also said to her, “If I tell the occasional untruth, it is against the backdrop of thirty years of faithfulness and devotion in marriage.”

“It is I who told you, my wife, that I am gay, and that I suppressed that truth for many years after its effects became known to me after we were married”

“It is I who has maintained my integrity and devotion, despite huge feelings of conflict, isolation and fear”

“My advice to you, my love, is that in the small things, if you already know the answer, please don’t ask the question and I won’t tell a lie”

My next blog will be:    Head to Toe

William Defoe

I think as Lent draws to its end, and reaches its remarkable conclusion at Easter next week, I sense within me a heightened sense of disappointment and of failure that my adult children do not practice their Catholic faith.

It is tempting for me to pray with all my heart for them to turn back to the church as if it would be some kind of tonic for my own sense of well being or is it pride?

I need to be careful what I wish for !

Firstly,  I need to be careful that my aspirations for them, are not really a remedy for my own failings.

My focus should be on my own faith, or lack of it, or continuation of it – it should not be on theirs.

Secondly, when I look back over my life, my sense of faith has usually been heightened at times of intense stress, suffering, pain, anxiety, strife and sadness and I have welcomed and been very thankful for being able to tap into the spiritual dimension to my soul, and of community which church attendance affords to me.

I am concerned that my hope for my adult children’s return to the practice of their faith, might be a prayer for them to  experience pain at some point in the future which I cannot carry for them as I would want to do.

Better, I think, that I should pray that they carry a remnant of their faith, and recognise that what they have retained is known to them, not to me.

My next blog will be:    Why I Lie

William Defoe

I felt alarmed and horrified by reports that a 25 year old Indonesian man called Akbar, had been attacked and consumed fully by a reticulated python in Sulawesi, Indonesia earlier this week.

My heart goes out to him – May he rest in peace, dear man – and also to his family and community who are in my thoughts and prayers.

I find it hard to imagine a worse fate, than the one which befell poor Akbar, but of course the manner in which we die is often down to the circumstances in which we find ourselves in at a time unknown.

I have been thinking about being consumed in aspects of my own life.

This is an experience which I can relate to, and at times it has felt like a living nightmare, and to recall it from memory is challenging and difficult.

To be consumed at periods of my life with anger and fear, brought about by feelings that the demands made upon me by myself, and others, were beyond my capacity at those times to deliver, made my life for long periods difficult to bear.

To be fully consumed by any issue, particularly over long periods, is to deny the soul the freedom to thrive, and for the soul to thrive, it needs a much wider canvas of experience on which to draw its energy and rest.

These experiences of living a strained and reactive life, have enabled me to educate my soul to recognise the traits in my behaviour which occur when issues start to take over in my life, so that I can put on the brakes, open the windows in my soul to let in fresh air, light, scope, context, love, healing and contrition.

It means that my work-life balance is not an option, its a given.

It means that time spent with my wife and adult children is not an option, it is important.

It means that my time spent with self, either in quiet reflection or in an activity which nourishes my soul, is not an option, it is a must.

It means that my time with God is not an option, it is a vein running parallel through my life on this earth, from which I hope to draw upon for strength and courage at the time it is my turn to be consumed by my own fate of death.

We give thanks for the life, Oh Lord, of dear Akbar, and whilst praying for him, we remember too, the people of Indonesia in our prayers

My next blog will be:  Be careful what you wish for

William Defoe