Last year, on 28 March 2017, the Royal Mint issued into circulation a new one pound coin.

Whenever I found one in my pocket, from change passed to me in the transactions I enter into on a daily basis, I started to put them all into a tin at the side of my bed – a money box – my tin of coins!.

It’s purpose was to amass funds which ought really not to exist, so that I could treat my wife to some experience – a trip to Venice or New York or Paris, which we have never been able to afford during the 30 years of our marriage.

Last week, I counted 296 of these coins and the tin is almost full. It will have to be emptied and filled a few more times before my dream can be put into practice.

I’m prepared to wait! It’s a journey not a race.

It’s means is short change, its purpose is short break!

This concept of reaching a goal at a steady pace, resonates heavily in my life, particularly at the current time when all my struggles, all my thinking; all my coaching; all my talking; all my listening; all my experience is pointing me strongly to a new way of living.

The hard bit is to remain patient; remain true to the values I hold dear; to bring those whom I love so much and with all my heart to the dawn of a new kind of relationship with each other, and with my truth.

My next blog will be: Learning to Love

William Defoe

If I was asked to tell you in a sentence or two, how I fasten my shoelace, I would struggle to explain it.

I have noticed how I fasten my shoelace on each shoe each day, without giving so much as a thought to the steps I must take to achieve it.

It is a marvelous skill, and one in fact, I can clearly remember acquiring as a young boy, needing to be able to loosen and fasten my shoes without parental help whilst out for the day at school.

Recently, I was confronted very surprisingly with an opportunity which required a quick decision.

In the few moments I had, to make up my mind whether to act or not, I managed to think myself out of the situation by all manner of reasoning and justifications and excuses.

There is no way of telling whether the choice I made in that moment was the right one, perhaps it was, and perhaps it was not – no matter, but I have this sense of having thought myself out of the art of what is possible if I had just allowed myself to do so.

I know that when I pick up my shoelaces and pull on them with force, my shoe closes in around my foot, and within moments it is held secure by the chords and a knot.

Perhaps the same logic could be applied to my capacity to explore and experience the world, trusting the outcome will deepen my understanding, deepen my clarity, deepen my truth without necessarily knowing in advance all the steps I need to take to get there.

My next blog will be: Tin of Coins

William Defoe

In the Chapter 10 called “Wayfarers All” of the beautiful book “Wind In The Willows” by Kenneth Grahame, Ratty, the Water Rat, is suddenly overcome by a sense of urgency to leave all that is familiar, and follow the departing migrants for a warmer climate and adventure.

Last week, I experienced a profound sense of needing to do the same – to break with all the trappings of my life, and to embrace fully and completely the homosexuality which exists alive within me, but which is suppressed to the world.

These difficult times, resulting from discourse and unhappiness verging on bitterness at home pushed me to what felt like a point of no return; a tipping point, from which I sensed fully what it would mean to literally break free.

The call of the departing swifts in “Wayfarers All” beckoned Ratty to the South, until his alarmed friend Mole holds on to him and lures him back to his senses with a combination of rest, peace and a sheet of writing  paper and a quill.

I experienced my awakening from within, despite the urge to leave everything, by my capacity even in that place of temptation and desire, to consider the needs of my wife.

I contacted one of our closest friends, a person whom we both hold in high regard and I told her that I was gay.

It was not done for my sake, it was an act of giving for my wife, who had been increasingly isolated in the situation of our marriage, now openly acknowledged by her as a gay husband, but unable to discuss it and seek compassion and solace for her fears.

A toxic mix of frustration; anxiety; unhappiness and hopelessness seem now to have given way to understanding; tolerance and love.

My call from within for freedom, still hopes to find its expression in being recognised and loved in the familiar, but the call of the swifts above and the synapses in my brain remain alive to an otherness which has been placed, for now, on hold.

My next blog will be: Fastening My Shoelace

William Defoe

Often when I am at most despondent, I will call out into the emptiness………..

“I want my Mum,  I want my Dad”

It’s a call back to my perception of safety which I must have carried as a child, and retained as an adult in my fifties!

I have never really been able to secure as an adult, a sense of safety and the need for comfort and love has never been far away from my deeply felt emotional life.

Last week, in the midst of grave difficulty, I called my elderly Mother on the telephone.

It is not a step I took lightly, but I had come to a place where I could no longer suppress the truth of the difficulties I face in my marriage.

Everything is hidden, everything is gleaned over at the surface with a  superficial shine which gives my life the appearance of safety, love and security which I do not really have.

I told her that my marriage was in difficulty and that I could no longer suppress this truth from her, oft thinking as I have done, that I would spare her the disappointment of my failings this side of her grave.

She listened, she soothed, she surprised me in offering me a place to live should I need the space.

Oh bless!

She managed to kiss my metaphorical grazed knee, put a plaster upon it and hold me close…… just for a moment, just for enough time to pass, for me to feel safe, before I turned back to face and deal with the problems I have and work them through with my wife.

My next blog will be: “Wayfarers All”

William Defoe

I live and experience my life through an intense emotional prism.

The weight of the air around me is pressing and restricting.

Last week, I met at a party a couple whom I had not seen for some considerable time.

The woman was chatting and bubbly and her husband subdued and quiet, each breath looked to be an effort for him to take.

My heart was aware of him, and when I found a moment later to be with him, we spoke about a crisis which had befallen him which had caused him to have a nervous breakdown.

A period of bullying in the workplace had brought down his sense of self; his dignity; his purpose so that his life came crashing down on him with severe consequences for his mental health and his financial situation.

Heavily medicated, just to be able to function, he told me about the circumstances of the abuse and how gradually he had been worn down until he had to quit.

I was conscious to listen, rather than to speak, but I explained to him briefly how I related to his experience and how by talking and expanding the canvas on which I live my life, I had avoided having a nervous breakdown.

I suffered terribly during a relatively short period of my working life and I think I survived largely intact because I refused to be a victim.

This is not to suggest that my friend in any way has failed, he has not, but I had the presence of mind, even in the darkness to be aware of the light around me in family; friends; faith.

I think the air is heavy around me because I am in a continuum of pushing it outwards, gasping for the clean air of living; of being alive; to fill my lungs each day.

Each day is a new opportunity to discover where I fit in to the world and that sense of belonging to the earth changes everyday if I have the presence of mind to look and listen.

Stretching every sinew to reach that state of weightlessness which comes with acceptance of how things are; acceptance of what is; what was, and what is still to come.

My next blog will be: A Call to Mother

William Defoe

In recent years, following our acquisition of mobile phones, I have exchanged a message of love with my wife by text each day.

Each day, I would arrive at work and send this message “I love you, have a nice day” and my wife would reply “Love you too, you too” or it might be effected the other way round.

Whenever there has been discourse and unhappiness between us in recent years, this ritual has been suspended, and its re-in-statement has been a sign that our latest fall out has come to an end.

Last month, after a particularly bad episode of difficulty, we found each other, lost as we had been, once again, on a weekend away, just the two of us.

We had a lovely time, both of us content to move on as we have on so many occasions before, but both recognising that time for us to find lasting happiness in our marriage of thirty years is running out, and it is running out fast.

In a moment of clarity, I informed my wife that I wanted to end our ritual of sending messages each day by text.

In answer to her request for a reason, I told her that I was proposing the suspension of it because using something that was intended to be affirming and re-assuring into a weapon had so debased its purpose, that it had become futile.

I told her that I intend to leave her each morning with a hug and a kiss and a smile and if I feel inclined to say “I love you” which I usually do, then I will say it.

So better, I think, to signal the end of our love notes and to welcome the start of something deeper; something closer; something worthwhile.

My next blog will be: How I Avoided a Nervous Breakdown

William Defoe

There can surely be nothing so sad and dejected as the carnage of my used running kit as I stand over it utterly spent on the floor below my naked aching body.

It’s damp and limp state seems to be an assault on all my senses as it transcends in an hour from pristine and crisp and rather flattering, to dirty and damp and rather disgusting.

I love the carnage of my used running kit as it straddles beneath my muscular legs and feet, because it has been on a journey on which I have been its passenger and friend.

Its visual state, just described, is as nothing compared to its feeling to touch – so damp and wet and incapable of being deft and alert.

Its assault on my nose is perhaps its most remarkable – the shirt so sweaty and wet; the shorts so sweaty and worse due to its recent proximity to ‘importance’ at the front! and ‘necessary’  at the back!

Its exposure to the wider environment of cold and rain; and mist and fumes together with its occasional contact with leaves and branches which leave their mark.

The carnage of my used running kit speaks to me of fulfilling a purpose and doing so at a price well paid.

Tonight, the clothes will be washed and restored to glory; restored to repeat its journey of support; restored to comfort and sexy style which draws the attention of passersby and the occasional whistle and horn.

I ask myself whether I can translate the journey and cycle of my running kit to the emotional cycles of my life, recognising within my soul the heights and depths which come from being connected; from being in demand; from being accessible; from being loved.

My next blog will be: The End of Our Love Notes

William Defoe

When I was a child, if I lingered too long in the bath with my plastic boat and my plastic duck, I would have wrinkly fingers which made my finger tips soft; bumpy and pale.

This observation in my life on lingering too long on a circumstance; or a longing; or an episode of anger has a similar effect on my brain as to having wrinkly fingers.

Ignoring for a moment, that in all probability my brain is already most likely soft, bumpy and pale, the impact of my emotional state on my ability to think clearly and rationally and roundly, is compromised by the wrinkly fingers approach to my choice of response.

In recent years, I have been more able to decipher in my head, that the water is cold, or metaphorically, my thoughts are stale or stagnated and so choose a different response to liberate myself from the old destructive impulse to be inert, rigid, or cold.

As a child, remembering the warm fluffy towel being rubbed over my frozen body and re-energised from the tips of my toes, to the ends of my fingers, reminds me of the benefits of allowing those who love us to care for us; and in return our wrinkly fingers unfold into a hug or a touch which shows them that we know.

My next blog will be: The Carnage of My Used Running Kit

William Defoe

It times past, I experienced my emotional longings as a jagged; random and dis-jointed series of episodes.

Later, following a period of coaching and development, I began to understand that these events of unhappiness and longing were part of a seamless cycle of longing, with ebbs and flows very much like the waves on a sea-shore – incoming and receding tides.

It seemed strange to me, throughout my development to know and love self, to start to welcome these cycles of pain and emotional turmoil which have been a feature of my life for many years.

My sexual frustration eventually found its voice, spoken out into community as being heterosexually married but inherently gay, and ever since that awakening, I have been trying strenuously to overcome the peaks and troughs of emotional frustration.

I have learned to recognise and be curious about the feelings I experience in any given moment, and in truth, the moments of the severest anguish do have their elements of beauty because their proximity to the deep longings which I hold within, are experienced with the greatest clarity when they are at their most severe.

I have learned to express my frustration as my orbit of longing which circumvents my being in cycles of perfect spheres which are constantly moving, never still, always present in my mind and heart.

I live in a permanent cycle of suffering, but it is not imposed on me from the outside, if it were so, it would be a manifestation of cruelty which I should take steps to overcome, no, rather it is an expression of my deepest longings which for complex reasons are not based on rationality, but on a wider context of self.

My orbit of longing is a thing of beauty because it tells me that at the heart of my struggle there is a man of integrity; a man of faith; a man of intelligence and love.

My next blog will be: Wrinkly Fingers

William Defoe

Recently, I visited an elderly man who has been housebound for a few weeks as a result of surgery on his back.

I had learned through a mutual friend, that he was very frustrated as a result of his confinement and his inability not only to drive a vehicle, but even be a passenger in one.

I called to see him at a pre-arranged time and I took him Holy Communion.

After our initial greeting and the spiritual elements of my visit were concluded in an atmosphere of calm and prayerful respect, we moved on to the social aspect of my visit.

As we sat drinking a cup of tea, I gave him the parish newsletter which I had brought with me.

I was surprised – very surprised – at the joy this newsletter brought forth within him.

He was delighted to receive it, his face lit up and he played with it in his hands.

He wanted to read it immediately, which would have been of no problem to me, but he said, “No, I’ll save it for later”

There was something in his manner, which seemed to suggest that my visit and the newsletter had somehow restored some balance, some connection, some belonging again into his life.

It was a wonderful feeling to have been able to make someone so happy with an hour of my time and a newsletter.

My next blog will be: My Orbit of Longing

William Defoe