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

In recent years I have developed an interest in watching small clips of speeches or comedy or movies on YouTube rather than sitting down to watch full length episodes of the news or a sitcom etc on the TV.

I have quite a catalogue of some of these small clips which I watch repeatedly because they either make me laugh over and over, or I am inspired by their brilliance or moved with emotion.

One of my all time favourites is a clip of comedian Johnny Vegas making appearance on a TV show (which I have never watched in full) called “The Last Leg” hosted by Adam Hills with regular contributions from Josh Widdecombe and Alex Brooker.

The small clip is taken while the host is trying to record the introductory credits, and he is interrupted by Johnny Vegas who unrelentingly, calls out random and hilarious anecdotes which has the panel and the audience in waves of laughter.

Eventually he gets onto a random theme about fish – carp to be specific, and he says some outrageous random anecdotes which keeps them all laughing wave upon wave – I love it.

The humour is quite adult in nature, but what fascinates me about this clip is how the shocking description of the carps experience is translated from the words spoken by Johnny Vegas, to a realisation in the mind of Alex Brooker of its intense humour.

I have watched over and over again how the words leave Johnny’s mouth and the impact is first seen in the flicker of Alex’s eyes, as the full impact and understanding of the humour hits his mind and then translates into uncontrollable movements of his body with shrieks of uncontrolled laughter.

I am interested in the point of intersection in the moment when laughter strikes, because it represents a turning point, an opening up of understanding between comedian and audience in which something as intangible as intelligence is visible and exposed to the naked eye.

This intersection of understanding is for me, an image of clarity which has the potential to liberate those areas in our psyche which are locked in.

They have allowed me to access, and then explore the hidden and suppressed truths which need to come to the surface and with courage released into the world.

It is in those moments, that something as intangible as truth becomes known and accepted and life moves forward without fear because it is finally free, it is finally honest, it is finally full of hope.

My next blog will be: “The Cost of Complaining”

William Defoe

There is a moment in the 1997 James Cameron film “Titanic” where the character played by Billy Zane is in a position to leave the sinking ship.

However, despite having this opportunity for his safety and self-preservation, he turns around to seek out and find his fiancee (the character played by Kate Winslet) and then he makes every effort to ensure that she is safely evacuated first, despite the relationship having broken down acrimoniously.

This moment of choice, which is real and present, is a representation of what it is like to have experience of life on the brink.

It is not the forward thinking, planning phase of change, it is the real and present implementation of it, the point of no return, from which life is changed for the better or the worst or perhaps both.

I have been living my life in recent weeks, on the brink and like the character of Caledon Hockley played by Billy Zane in the film Titanic,  I have experienced, at the point of my own moment on the edge of a of precipice, a holding back, as if a physical hand is grabbing onto the back of my shirt-collar to keep me on this side of changing my life.

For me, it has felt in recent weeks and days that my marriage must end.

I have thought about it, I have discussed it, I have ranted and raved about it, and I have communicated it to my wife, and yet I have this feeling of being held back from implementing the change by a strong desire to make sure that my wife is safe first.

This might not be possible, but from the other side of the change it has the potential to be less possible. Perhaps this is a sign that I am not ready, I have not done all the work I need to do before I go.

Life on the Brink is a crazy place – a teetering on the edge where the body sways, and the mind swoons, and the emotions rock forward and back, and the soul yearns and cries out for the relief of some otherness, some warmth, some compassion, some love.

Ultimately, life on the brink comes to an end with a leap of faith, a commitment to change irrespective of the consequences which in advance, can not be fully known.

I suppose, the hand holding me back could be the hand of God, the hand of reason, the hand of hope, the hand of self, but whatever it is, it is currently at the back of me holding onto my shirt and I need to turn around and see it, I need to confront it, I need to master it, if I am ever going to be in a position to make my leap of faith from my life on the brink.

My next blog will be: The Moment When Laughter Strikes

William Defoe