Earlier this summer, we were advised by our doctor to cancel our planned holiday to Spain as a result of ongoing concerns over my wife’s health.

It was a bit of a shock, and despite the obvious concern I had for my wife, who at that time seemed a little improved, I was disappointed.

My disappointment had its basis in the upset the cancelled holiday would have to the rhythm of my life, which is punctuated by long periods of hard and stressful work, punctuated with occasional weeks of rest and sun.

In the week we should have been away, we had a short weekend break and then I went to work.

All week I had this sense that in all the events which took shape in my life each day, these were experiences which I should not have been having.

I was here instead of there.

The exacting routine of my holiday plans of :

run –

breakfast –

walk –

sunbed –

lunch –

paint or read –

balcony –

meal –

alcohol –

sex -sleep

was replaced by a week of deadlines, pressure and frustration.

The experience made me think about how I often fear the unknown when I consider changing the fundamental pattern of my life, for something more in tune with the call of my soul to be me.

The experience of being here, instead of there provided me with an insight into the ramifications of making a choice, to do something different to the normal course of events in my life, and how I would no doubt be feeling a sense of loss or disappointment if the new type of life I chose, did not measure up to the one I had left behind.

But that logic is flawed, that logic is skewed, that logic is false, because it pre-determines the outcome before the journey begins, and it puts a rose-coloured glint on my current experience which does not reflect the pain and the struggle that I have experienced over many years.

It might have rained on my planned holiday, I might have been fallen and twisted my ankle, I might have eaten some dodgy food etc etc etc – my view of how life would have been “there” whilst I was “here” was nothing more than imaginings.

The reality is that life, is experienced as it is here, in the present moment, and the alternative is as thin as the air so long as it is a choice forsaken.

The important part, is to be able to respond to the call of self and to live the choice made, rather than look back or across to the choice which is not made.

My next blog will be: Raindrops In My Tea

William Defoe

When I was about ten years old, my friends locked me in a neighbours cupboard as part of the play.

It wasn’t intended to hurt me, but it did.

Realizing that I was trapped in the cupboard, I became incredibly anxious to get out, but my means of escape was not in my hands, it was in the hands of others.

I have periodically had nightmares about that event, despite the passing of the years, because in those moments – and they were only moments – I experienced a deep trauma and helplessness, the like of which I had never experienced before.

In my life at the present moment, I have all those feelings of being trapped in a cupboard, but I am struck by the thought, that I am the one who has the means of escape. I am not dependent on anybody else to free me from my place of fear.

It is as if I am sat in the cupboard again, with the door fast shut, but it is I who is holding on to the handle and pulling it towards me to keep me fastened in.

What is it about the world outside that I am so scared of?

Outside of my marriage, I can sense a liberation, but I also sense doubt, a loss of my capacity to be a friend to my wife whom I love.

My need, which is ever growing for me to be part of the gay community, to whom I rightfully belong, is an enormous burden in my heart which is held fast behind the cupboard door.

My chest heaves, and my heart sighs, and my mind swoons over and over and over but still I hold onto that door, keeping me safe from the truth, keeping me safe from the courage I need, keeping me safe from being who I am meant to be.

My next blog will be: Being Here Instead of There

William Defoe

I have finally forced my garden in to submission following long periods of manual labour to :

• clear away the weeds;
• chop down branches;
• jet wash the patio;
• scrub the brick paving with a wire brush;

and then the nice bits:

• of planting flowers;
• hanging baskets;
• buying and hanging :
• wind-charms;
• bird feeders;
• bird boxes;
• fairy lights
• lanterns and candles.

The aching body, scratched arms, cut fingers, bruised knees have finally resulted in a place of beauty in which I can hope to spend some pleasant evenings having my meals outside or sitting on the bench reading a book or drinking a beer, or reclining on a sun lounger in my boxers!

However, it is the manual labour which has felt important through this period of time.

The physical effort, compliments the mental effort of living and for me at this time, it has been very noticeable.

Hard manual labour, especially for someone like me who works in a service industry, is an opportunity to feel my thoughts within my body.

It is as if my worries and pressures translate themselves from my head directly to my fingertips and toes.

My body, is its own ecology, it is its own island, its own universe and to feel in the body as well as in the head, is to experience  its full vigour; its vitality; its fruit.

My next blog will be: Trapped in a Cupboard

William Defoe

Earlier this week, I reached the age at which my maternal grandmother died in 1955.

At this age too, an uncle of mine died, and more recently a much loved cousin.

No wonder, perhaps then, that I contemplate more seriously, what this year has in store for me, and how best I can respond to the deep longings of my heart to face and live up to my truth.

I have this fear, that I will leave my life one day, without having lived it.

To live my life, is to respond to the call within, to live with integrity, to live with honesty, to live with truth.

I have interpreted this for many years, as it having its fullest meaning in conforming to the values of those around me, to the principles of my faith, to avoid being a disappointment.

At 54, I am emerging strongly into an interpretation of living my life, by listening to the call of my soul, to give my life its full expression with integrity, honesty and truth.

My next blog will be: Manual Labour

William Defoe

I have been away from my writing in recent weeks.

Initially, the pressures of dealing with a period of intensity at work and of supporting a sick relative at home restricted my availability to write.

This period of intensity, has been accompanied by an unprecedented inner crisis which has held residence pretty much within my chest cavity for several weeks.

My thoughts have been in turmoil in my head, whilst its effects have been felt on my heart, and I have realised this week, that my longings are at such a pitch that I cannot use my writing to deflect these feelings out of self and into the world, because I can’t write what I want to say.

I have been surprised by my capacity to share the inner most feelings of my heart in recent years, but at this particular moment, I sense a need within me to retain within me the yearnings for which I crave.

No wonder, then, that I am fit to burst, but the heart does not burst, it stores and treasures it’s experiences and eventually it unravels the knot, so that the mind discerns a plateau, on which it can find rest, on which it can find space, on which it can find wholeness.

I have learned that the strife and the struggles, and the sense of burden, are in fact the richest part of the journey, because my head and my heart are not competing against each other, rather they are at one and the same, wrestling with the crisis of identity; and with the crisis of integrity; and with the crisis of faith; in an utter unity  of purpose and of will.

My next blog will be: At 54

William Defoe

Earlier this month,I spent a few days on the coast with my wife, and as we drove home we witnessed the most beautiful of sunsets as we drove along.

A deep red glow on the open horizon, in front of which were the rolling hills which were basking in the shadows of blue and yellow and green and orange of the setting sun – utterly beautiful!.

After the sun had left us, my eyes were drawn to a solitary tree on the horizon and my heart fell into a deep reverie and melancholy, as I continued to glance over towards it as I drove along.

It’s strength and it’s beauty and it’s magnificence were very much apparent to me, but it seemed to me, to be very much alone and unfriended.

My musing thoughts on the beauty of this tree and of its sparse surroundings in the distance, moved me to consider that from another aspect the isolation of this tree might not be so sad as I perceived it to be.

Over the horizon the land no doubt, fell away, and all that exists in that space beyond the tree is as yet unknown to me.

If for some reason, I felt a connection with the tree, it was no doubt because I could reflect in my own life, the beauty and love which surrounds me from family and friends and colleagues and community, and yet still I feel a sense of isolation and deep pain and loneliness at the hidden life I hold within me.

If for some reason, I could dare to hope that aspects of my hidden life could be exposed and enlightened and expressed as a gay man in the context of my marriage then perhaps I too could feel the glow on my heart, of the setting sun and its bright raiment  of colours on my face.

If for some reason, I could see beyond the horizon and realise that there is beauty there too, and not a chasm of destruction and pain, then perhaps too, I could immerse myself and be glad that somewhere out there others eyes are being drawn towards me as if I too was the solitary tree on the horizon.

My next blog will be: Manual Labour

William Defoe

Last month, at the start of my coaching session, I very surprisingly and unexpectedly started to cry as we sat in silence across from each other for a few minutes of sitting practice.

This sitting practice at the start of our sessions is powerful, because it is a coming together and a settling down in which all my crazy thoughts and hopes and aspirations take shape into something calm and constructed.

I cried because the dilemma which I have tried to manage for many years feels like it is finally resolving itself in my mind to a different outcome from the one I had hoped to achieve.

I was overwhelmed with  sadness for the sense of failure which surfaced in my emotional state through my tears.

The beautiful quiet period of time inter-dispersed with my audible and uncontrollable  sobs as my coach professionally looked on, was indeed a cathartic moment.

The release of emotion was exactly what I needed, but until that moment I had not been able to express it.

I cried, but it did not take away the anguish, it wasn’t meant to, instead it lead me to a kind of deep awakening to accept things as they are, rather than how I would like them to be.

I am gay, and despite the deepest protestations in the deepest part of my soul to the reality of this fact, I cannot continue to live a life half-lived unless by some other means I can find a way to be married and gay.

I am already married and gay, so what I mean is, I need my wife to either fully accept the full meaning of my reality, or to reject it, which would be entirely reasonable of her so to do.

I cried, and the physical release of tears and unstoppable shaking of my head and chest in the great upheaval of the storm in that place of peace, was a manifestation of all that has gone before me, and all that is now, and of all that is still to come.

I cried, and the mental effort to hold on to the purpose of it all, so that I could explain it to myself, and then to my coach, was a journey of discovery and of clarity and truth.

I so want to be able to fit into all the spaces that I occupy in my life as a husband and as father, but somehow my tears confirmed that this space I occupy may have to change, or rather, my relationship to the space I occupy, may have to become more honest  if I am to live more in step with my truth.

At the end of the silence, my coach looks at me and says “So, why are you crying?”

My voice is broken and I make her a reply, “I am crying because I am grieving for a life which I can no longer sustain”

My next blog will be: The Solitary Tree On The Horizon

William Defoe

Occasionally I have the pleasure of receiving written feedback to one of my posts.

I few months ago, one of my readers in the USA ,wrote to me to say that he had found my words profound, because he also was struggling to balance his married commitments with his unfulfilled gay sexuality.

This connection with others, who are undertaking a similar journey is a rewarding aspect to the power of my written word.

In recent weeks, I have been exploring with my coach, ideas of deepening my connection to the gay community, whilst at the same time honouring my commitment to my wife, whom I love dearly.

My capacity to hold and honour both of these seemingly conflicting aspects in my life is a growing and evolving process, under the control of the deep and conscious thinking which I apply to this dilemma.

My ultimate control has to be that I do not fall into a situation where I become a transgressor.

I have always honoured my vows, and yet still the strength of my feelings for my own sex, now experienced in acceptance and welcoming, holds for me risk of responding when I need to exercise restraint.

To honour, ultimately means that I have to be honest, and for me this means that I act to end my marriage in openness and truth with integrity and due care before I fall into becoming a transgressor.

My next blog will be: I Cried

William Defoe

A couple of weeks ago, my wife and I were out with friends for a meal at a local restaurant which has become quite popular.

We arrived early and waited in the bar area with a drink until we were called to our table. It was very busy.

There followed a 50 minute wait, before we were served our first course and whereas my wife and I felt that was a little too long, our friends were seriously put out and from that moment they were determined to be recompensed in some way for the inconvenience.

They asked for this, they asked for that, they hinted on a discount, they said they were under pressure to catch a train (untrue) and they returned food.

The result of all this was a £20 discount at the end of the evening, which I promptly returned in a tip to the waitress after our friends had left.

The cost of complaining for me is about much more than the anticipation of a discount.

It is the giving up in the moment the pleasure of being in company, the pleasure of conversation, the pleasure of sharing and catching up with the lives of our friends and family.

I learned from bitter experience many years ago, that to complain is to lose perspective, it is to take out ones own frustrations on the hired help of a restaurant, often young people who are working unsociable hours to make ends meet through college.

My way of complaining is to walk away and not return, at least for a while, until my memory of the poor service or poor food or poor atmosphere has dissipated from my mind.

Our friends left us with smiles and kisses after their successful complaint, none the wiser that for us, their friends, the evening had been an ordeal.

The relief after they had left us was palpable, we were almost giddy to be alone for a while as we waited for our taxi to arrive.

The cost of complaining I believe eventually impacts on the complainant because friendships are strained, families are torn open and society becomes fractious and intolerant too.

My next blog will be: Transgressor

William Defoe